i^^Miiii 


m 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


ALUMNUS 
BOOK  FUND 


^ 


ATHEESTONE    PKIORY. 


L.    K  jC^OMTN, 

AUTHOR     OF     'eLLICE,     A     TALI 


Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest  thou  likewise  thy  brethren. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on  his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin ?    Is  he  not  sailing 
Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he  not  guided 

By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee? 

Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil  over  his  failings  : 
This  is  the  fruit  of  love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that  we  know  it. 


E  S  T  E  S     AND     L  A  U  R  I  A  T, 

143  WASHINGTON  STREET, 
BOSTON. 


ALUMNUS 


CONTENTS. 


OflAP. 

I.   LISA,       .... 
II.   THE  LIKENESS  IN  MART'S  ROOM, 
III.    LE  BALAFR^       . 
TV.   WHAT  LISA  THINKS  OF  HER  COUSIN, 

V.   MISUNDERSTANDINGS,    . 
VI.  A  WILFUL  SPRITE^ 
VII.    ON  THE  SOFA,     .  ,  , 

VIII.   INDIAN  TALES,  .  ,  , 

IX.   ISABEL'S  RETURN, 
X.  PENITENCE, 
XL    A  TALK,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT, 
XII.  THE  HAZELDEAN  WQODS, 

XIII.  *  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN  NOW,' 

XIV.  AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE, 
XT.  *  SOME  DAYS  MUST  BE  DARK  AND  DREARY,' 

XVI.  BAFFLED, 


r  '    6.19 


PAGE 
1 

12 
19 
25 
29 
38 
46 
61 
63 
71 
74 
82 
92 
98 
107 
113 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

XVII.   UNDER  THE  LIME-TREES, 

XVIII.  HAPPY  DAYS, 

XIX.   THE  FIRST  LINK  IN  A  LONG  CHAIN,  . 

XX.   A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PAST, 

XXI.   AUTUMN  LEAVES,       .  .  . 

XXIL   THE  LAST  EVENING  IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE, 

XXIIL  WEDDING  BELLS, 

XXIV.    '  THIS  SWEET  WEE  WIFE  O'  MINE/       . 

XXV.   THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA,    . 

XXVI.   ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN, 

XXVIL   THE  POOL  AMONG  THE  HILLS, 

XXVIII.   THE  FIRST  SHADOW, 

XXIX.    ISABEL'S  SUSPICIONS, 

XXX.   *  SEE,  WHAT  A  READY  TONGUE  SUSPICION  HATH,' 

XXXL   THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SHRUBBERY,  .  . 

XXXIL   THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN, 

XXXIIL   UP  AMONG  THE  HILLS  AGAIN, 

XXXIV.   DISCLOSURES, 

XXXV.   A  HASTY  SUMMONS,    . 

XXXVL  A  NEW-COMER, 

XXXVII.  PAST  AND  FUTURE,    , 

XXXVIII.   *  HERSELF  A  WITNESS  OP  KINDLY  THOUGHT,' 

XXXIX.    *  LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BURY  ITS  DEAD,' 

XL.    A  VOICE  FROM  THE  QUIET  LAND, 


CONTENTS. 


Vll 


CHAP.  PAGK 

XLI.    BEYOND  RECAL,              .                ,                 .                 .                 ,  276 

XLII.    AT  REST,            ......  286 

XLIII.   A  LONG  PARTING,         .....  296 

XLIV.   *  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COME,  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE,'  308 
XLV.   ST  JUDE'S  RECTORY,     .                .                .                .               .317 

XLVI.   DISAPPOINTED  HOPES,                .               .                •               ,  £»27 

XLVIL   MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE,          .                .                .                •  333 

XL VIII.   ^  WILL  YE  THINK  OF  HER  WHO  DIED  V              ,                ,  340 

XLIX.   *  FROM  OUT  THE  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHER  LOOKS/              .  348 

L.   '  THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  ME,'               .                .  359 


CONCLUSION — *  BEHIND  THE  CLOUDS  IS  THE  SUN  STILL  SHINING/  368 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atherstoneprioryOOcomyrich 


ATHERSTONE    PRIORY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

LISA. 

'  What  time  did  Mary  say  they  would  be  here,  Helen  ? '  asked 
Dr  Tennent,  walking,  one  cold  afternoon  in  February,  into  the 
drawing-room  at  Atherstone  Priory,  and  standing  there  while 
he  buttoned  up  his  great-coat  in  preparation  for  meeting  the 
keen  north  wind  which  was  whistling  drearily  without  the  house. 
*  What  time  did  she  say  they  would  get  here  1  Seven  o'clock, 
was  it  1 ' 

*  No,  six,  I  believe — unless  they  have  changed  their  minds 
again  since  she  wrote,  which  is  not  improbable.  I  do  wish,' 
continued  Mrs  Tennent,  laying  down  her  work  for  a  moment 
to  stir  the  fire,  *  I  do  wish  when  people  fix  a  time  for  coming 
to  a  place,  tliey  would  keep  to  it.  There  is  nothing  I  dislike 
more  than  such  perpetual  changes,  and  Mary  knows  it.  I  think 
she  might  have  shown  a  little  more  thought.' 

*  My  dear,  I  don't  see  how  she  could  help  it,'  returned  the 
doctor,  ^  I  don't  think  it  was  her  fault.  And,  I  can't  tell  what 
difference  it  makes  whether  they  come  to-day  or  to-morrow.  It 
is  not  as  if  Percy  were  a  stranger,  and  obliged  to  stand  upon 
ceremony  with  us.  The  great  thing  is  to  get  him  here  as  quickly 
as  possible ;  and  if  he  is  able  to  travel  sooner  than  we  expected, 
so  much  the  better.  London  lodgings  are  wretched  places,  and 
there  's  no  doubt  he  will  be  glad  enough  to  find  himself  at 
home  again.' 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  Percy  was  not  Mrs  Tennent's 
son,  and  therefore  it  was  not  to  be  expected  she  could  enter 
so  entirely  into  his  father's  feelings  of  satisfaction  at  his  return 
after  a  long  absence^  as  to  exclude  all  other  considerations.     She 

A 


^  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

had  decided  opinions  also  upon  certain  subjects ;  and  these 
opinions  were  not  to  be  trifled  with,  as  everybody  knew.  She 
went  on  with  her  work  now  in  a  grave  determined  way,  which 
said  as  plainly  as  anything  could  say,  that  she  was  not  pleased, 
and  Dr  Tennent  fidgeted  about  the  room  as  if  he  would  have 
liked  to  say  something  else,  but  was  not  sure  how  it  would  be 
taken. 

*  Are  you  going  out  again  ? '  his  wife  asked  at  last. 

*  Yes,  but  only  to  Mrs  Gunning's.  I  promised  to  meet 
Symonds  there  at  five  o'clock.  It  must  be  nearly  that  now.' 
But  although  he  made  this  announcement,  the  doctor  seemed 
in  no  hurry  to  go. 

'I  heard  from  John  to-day,'  he  said  abruptly,  after  a  long 
silence. 

*  Did  you  ?  I  am  surprised  at  that.  It  is  so  long  since  he 
wrote,  that  I  thought  he  had  dropped  the  acquaintance.  But 
I  suppose  he  is  on  his  road  home,  and  thinks  it  time  to  find 
out  old  friends.' 

*  I  don't  know ;  he  says  nothing  about  coming  back.  He 
is  at  Wiesbaden  now.' 

*  At  Wiesbaden !  And  what  is  he  doing  there  ?  He  had 
much  better  return  to  England.  He  ought  to  be  looking  after 
his  affairs,  instead  of  running  after  pleasure  abroad.' 

*  Perhaps  so,'  was  the  answer,  in  rather  an  absent  tone.  '  I 
don't  know,  though,  Helen,  that  his  roving  disposition  has 
not  been  of  some  use  this  time.  Certainty  of  any  kind  is  better 
than  suspense;  and  our  doubts  about  Emily  Kennedy  are  set 
at  rest  now  for  ever.' 

Mrs  Tennent  started.  'Emily  Kennedy!  What  do  you 
mean  ?     He  has  not  heard  of  her  1 ' 

'  Yes,  he  has — yes,  he  has.'  And  the  doctor  folded  his  arms 
and  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  fire ;  *  and  perhaps  it  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  been  heard  of  her,'  he  went  on  at 
length.  *  She  is  dead,  Helen ;  she  died  six  months  ago  at 
Wiesbaden.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,  for  although  she  went 
under  another  name,  the  chaplain's  account  of  her,  and  the 
things  they  found,  prove  it  most  certainly.  There  is  John's 
letter.  You  will  see  how  he  first  got  the  clue,  and  I  am  glad 
he  followed  it  up.     It  is  a  relief  to  know  it  is  all  over.' 

*  Yes,  indeed  it  is,'  was  Mrs  Tennent's  answer,  in  a  low  bitter 
tone,  as  she  glanced  over  the  contents  of  the  note  her  husband 
handed  to  her.     *  And  the  sooner  she  is  forgotten  the  better. 


LISA.  3 

Better  still  it  would  be  if  we  could  forget  she  had  ever  lived ;  but 
that  is  impossible.' 

*  Poor  Emily  ! '  sighed  the  doctor  ;  ^  poor  Emily  !  Who 
would  have  thought  it  ?  So  gay  and  happy  as  she  used  to  be  ! 
She  was  the  beauty  of  the  place  then — the  prettiest  girl  in 
all  the  country  round.  Lisa  takes  after  her  in  that — she  has 
all  her  mother's  good  looks ;  but  we  must  hope  she  will  have 
a  happier  life  of  it,  poor  child.' 

A  laugh  outside  the  window  roused  him — a  clear,  ringing, 
joyous  laugh  it  was  :  but  it  seemed  to  strike  him  painfully  just 
then.     He  looked  up  quickly. 

*  What  do  you  intend  to  do  about  her  ? '  he  asked,  his  eye 
following  the  figure  of  a  young  girl  who  was  running  across  the 
lawn.     *  About  Lisa^  I  mean.     Will  you  tell  her  ? ' 

*Tell  her!  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Dr  Tennent?  She 
never  asks  after  her.  I  have  never  even  heard  her  mention  her 
name.  Most  probably  she  supposes  her  to  have  been  dead  for 
years  ;  and  what  good  would  it  do  to  enlighten  her  now  ?  She 
can't  profess  to  care  much  for  a  person  whom  she  can  hardly  re- 
member ;  and  we  should  never  dream  of  putting  her  into  mourn- 
ing or  ourselves  either.     Most  certainly  I  shall  not  tell  her.' 

*  Very  well,'  said  the  doctor,  who  generally  deferred  to  his 
wife's  opinion ;  *  very  well,  do  as  you  like  about  it ;  it  is  sure 
to  be  right,  whatever  you  settle;  and  of  course  it  can  make 
no  difference  to  her.  She  has  a  home  here,  poor  child.  And 
we  are  not  sorry  to  have  her — eh,  Helen  1  She  is  a  good  little 
girl,  is  Lisa,  and  very  affectionate.' 

Mrs  Tennent  coughed.  *  Lisa  may  be  what  you  say  ;  I  don't 
know.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  if  she  were  as  fond  of  us 
as  you  fancy,  she  would  show  it  more  in  her  actions.  She 
gives  me  a  great  deal  more  trouble  than  all  my  own 
children  put  together.  She  is  careless  and  forgetful,  and  very 
wilful ;  and  she  takes  no  pains  to  improve.  I  thought  I  could 
have  depended  on  her,  while  Mary  was  away,  to  go  on  work- 
ing at  her  own  studies,  and  keep  Susan  and  Constance  to 
theirs ;  but  she  has  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  There  has  been 
no  order  at  all  in  the  schoolroom ;  and  considering  that  she 
is  nearly  sixteen,  it  is  too  bad  to  think  I  cannot  trust  her. 
I  mean  to  speak  to  her  this  evening,  and  tell  her  how  dis- 
pleased I  am.  She  is  too  old  to  go  on  in  the  childish, 
thoughtless  way  she  does,  caring  for  nothing  but  play.  It  is 
my  belief  that,  if  she  could  race  up  and  down  the  garden  all 


4  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

day  with  the  dog,  or  shoot  sparrows  with  Arthur,  and  play 
at  cricket  and  foot-ball  with  him  and  the  boys,  she  would  be 
quite  content.  And  she  is  incorrigible.  It  is  thoroughly  dis- 
heartening to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.' 

*  She  does  well  enough  when  Mary  is  here/  said  Dr  Tennent, 
in  a  tone  of  excuse.  *  You  can't  find  fault  with  her  then,  my 
dear.' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  don't  think  so.  But  even  if  she  did, 
I  don't  see  what  good  that  would  do.  She  can't  have  Mary 
to  look  after  her  all  her  life,  and  what  is  to  become  of  her 
in  two  or  three  years'  time,  when  she  has  to  go  out  as  a 
governess  1  Who  will  trust  her  with  their  children,  I  should 
like  to  know,  when  she  can't  be  trusted  to  look  after  herself  ? 
It  is  ridiculous  to  talk  as  you  do,  Dr  Tennent.  But  I  shall 
speak  to  her  this  evening ;  and  very  seriously  too.' 

^  Well,  well,  do  as  you  think  best ;  only  don't  be  too  hard 
upon  her,  Helen,'  said  the  doctor.  *  She  is  only  a  child,  after 
all ;  and  we  must  remember  she  has  no  father — and  no  mother 
now,'  he  added,  with  some  emphasis.  ^We  must  not  let  her 
think  us  unkind.' 

*  No  one  wishes  to  be  unkind,'  said  Mrs  Tennent,  drily. 
*  But  it  strikes  me  you  would  be  if  you  had  your  own  way. 
It  would  be  great  unkindness  to  let  her  go  on  as  she  is  doing 
now ;  though  I  quite  believe  you  would  if  you  could,  and  all 
because  you  are  afraid  of  being  thought  unkind.' 

Dr  Tennent  smiled  a  little.  *  Perhaps  I  should ;  but  I  have 
not  the  chance,  you  see.  However,  I  daresay,  you  will  not  have 
so  much  cause  for  complaint  now.  Arthur  goes  to-morrow, 
and  they  will  none  of  them  be  so  wild  when  he  is  away.  By 
the  by,  I  think  we  shall  soon  have  to  give  up  asking  him  to 
spend  his  vacations  here.  The  girls  are  growing  up.  Elinor 
must  be  more  than  eighteen  by  this  time,  and  she  has  looked 
a  woman  for  the  last  three  years ;  and  Lisa  is  nearly  sixteen, 
you  say.  We  must  mind  what  we  are  about,  Helen,  or  we  shall 
have  him  falling  in  love  with  one  of  them.  I  think  in  the 
summer  he  had  better  pay  Ralph  a  visit  at  Gainsford,  instead 
of  coming  here.  I  don't  believe  he  has  been  there  half-a- 
dozen  times  since  his  father  died,  and  he  ought  to  see  more 
of  his  brother.     It  would  be  a  good  plan,  wouldn't  it  ? 

*  Perhaps  so.'  Mrs  Tennent  liked  plans  to  originate  with 
herself.  *  But  it  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  of  that  when 
the  summer  comes.     I  have  no  fear  of  love-making  between 


LISA.  5 

him  and  the  girls.  When  young  people  grow  up  together, 
they  very  seldom  dream  of  such  a  thing;  they  know  each 
other  too  well ;  and  he  has  been  here  so  much,  that  they  look 
upon  him  as  a  brother.' 

She  spoke  decidedly;  but  the  doctor,  contrary  to  his  usual 
custom,  did  not  appear  to  be  quite  convinced. 

'  I  don't  know ;  one  does  hear  of  such  things  sometimes, 
and  it  would  be  awkward  if  it  should  happen.  He  has 
very  little  but  his  profession  to  look  to,  so  it  would  be  years 
before  they  could  marry,  even  if  ' 

'  Even  if  they  want  to  do  so,  which  they  never  will.  Arthur 
knows  well  enough  what  his  prospects  are,  and  that  he  cannot 
keep  a  wife.  He  will  have  something  to  do  to  keep  himself 
first — curates  without  private  means  can't  afford  to  marry — and 
by  the  time  he  gets  a  living,  Elinor  will  be  settled,  and  Lisa  out 
of  his  way.  I  know  what  young  people  are,  Dr  Tennent,  and 
how  little  danger  there  is  of  such  a  thing  happening  as  you 
suppose.  If  I  saw  it  beginning,  I  should  put  a  stop  to  it  at 
once.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  the  doctor,  *  I  only  hope  you  will  find  it 
out  in  time.  I  should  not  like  them  to  be  made  unhappy  for 
want  of  a  little  caution  on  our  part.  And  now  I  ^m  off.  Past 
five  o'clock,  I  declare,  and  I  ought  to  be  in  Hammond  Place.' 
And  catching  up  his  hat  he  disappeared,  nearly  running  over 
his  daughter  Elinor,  who  was  just  coming  into  the  room  as  he 
ran  out  of  it. 

Dr  Tennent  was  one  of  the  leading  medical  men  in  the  large 
and  populous  manufacturing  town  of  Atherstone,  and  had  an 
extensive  practice,  not  only  in  the  town  itself,  but  for  many 
miles  round,  among  the  county  families.  His  father  and  grand- 
father had  both  occupied  the  same  position,  and  had  been 
universally  respected  by  all  who  knew  them;  and  he  himself 
inherited  no  small  share  of  their  popularity.  He  was  a  leading 
man  in  the  place  in  many  ways.  There  were  few  schemes  of 
usefulness  or  benevolence  carried  out  in  the  town,  of  which  he 
was  not  either  the  originator,  or  a  promoter  and  active  sup- 
porter. How  he  accomplished  so  much  without  wearing  himself 
out,  was  a  wonder  to  every  one  who  knew  him.  But  he  had  a 
never-failing  amount  of  energy,  and  was  one  of  those  hardy, 
wiry  men,  who  appear  capable  of  getting  through  any  quan- 
tity of  business  without  breaking  down;  and  nobody  had 
ever   heard   him  complain  of  being  overworked.     He  was  up 


6  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

early  and  late,  in  and  out  at  all  hours,  and  hardly  knew  what  it 
was  to  have  a  'few  quiet  minutes  at  home,  so  incessant  were  the 
demands  made  upon  him  both  by  rich  and  poor ;  and  of  these 
two  classes,  the  latter  had  by  no  means  the  fewest  of  his 
thoughts.  The  rich  could  always  find  a  doctor,  he  said,  but 
those  who  were  not  so  well  off  were  not  so  sure  of  having 
attention  paid  them ;  and  the  poor,  having  once  found  that  they 
had  a  friend  in  him,  were  not  slow  in  taking  advantage  of  the 
discovery. 

It  was  well  for  him  that  he  had  a  wife  who  was  able  to  take 
the  management  of  his  family  off  his  hands,  and  who  went  her 
own  way  to  work  without  asking  for  either  advice  or  appro- 
bation. A  far  larger  household  than  she  had  to  manage 
would  have  been  no  burden  to  Mrs  Tennent,  although  her 
present  establishment  was  by  no  means  small.  She  had  seven 
children  of  her  own,  and  the  doctor,  who  had  been  twice 
married,  had  also  a  son  and  daughter  by  his  first  wife.  It  was 
true  that  the  son,  who  was  in  the  army,  could  hardly  be  said  to 
make  one  of  the  family ;  but  his  place  was  filled  by  a  nephew 
of  Mrs  Tennent's,  who,  first  as  a  schoolboy,  and  now  as  a  young 
man  at  college,  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  making  her  house 
his  home.  An  orphan  niece  of  the  doctor's  also  lived  with  them, 
and  completed  the  number  of  the  recognised  members  of  the 
household,  but  not  at  all  that  of  the  stray  friends  and  relations, 
who  found  their  way  there  at  all  times,  for  the  doctor  was  very 
hospitable,  and  liked  nothing  better  than  to  see  plenty  of  faces 
and  hear  cheerful  voices  about  him. 

His  house  was  a  large  one,  and,  like  his  practice,  had  been 
handed  down  to  him  from  his  grandfather ;  but  what  had,  in  the 
first  Dr  Tennent's  time,  been  a  pleasant  suburban  residence,  with 
green  meadows,  sunny  banks,  and  wooded  land  round  it,  was 
now  situated  in  the  centre  of  a  crowded  district,  and  all  that 
remained  of  its  once  rural  aspect  was  a  large,  well-planted  garden 
at  the  back — the  especial  delight  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
family.  The  house  itself,  called  the  Priory,  from  the  fact  of  its 
standing  upon  the  site  of  what  had  formerly  been  a  monastic 
building,  was  a  rambling  and  rather  old-fashioned  place,  full  of 
small,  low-pitched  rooms  up-stairs,  and  large,  but  equally  low  and 
inconvenient  rooms,  below.  Mrs  Tennent  declared  that  many  of 
them  were  not  habitable,  and  that  do  what  she  would  in  the 
way  of  furnishing  and  ornamenting,  nothing  ever  made  them  even 
decently  comfortable.     But  nobody  else  seemed  to  think  so  j  on 


LISA.  7 

the  contrary,  they  were  always  well  filled,  and  every  one  contrived 
to  make  themselves  very  happy  there. 

If  laughter  and  merriment,  indeed,  are  to  be  taken  as  signs  of 
happiness,  there  was  plenty  of  it  to  be  found  at  the  Priory ;  nor 
was  that  cold  February  day  any  exception  to  the  rule,  as  was 
testified  by  the  ringing  voices  and  gay  shouts  of  a  party  on  the 
lawn,  who  all  that  afternoon  had  been  eager  with  a  game  at 
snow-balling,  and  who  even  now,  when  the  evening  was  closing 
in,  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  forego  their  amusement.  The  outward 
aspect  of  things  was  not  enlivening ;  but  fortunately  for  them, 
their  spirits  were  not  affected  by  trifles  ;  and  although  the  neigh- 
bouring red- brick  houses,  with  their  roofs  covered  with  black- 
ened snow,  looked  drearily  desolate,  and  the  old  tower  of  the 
Priory  church  close  by  rose  dark  against  the  leaden  sky ;  and 
though  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  lime-trees  in  the  garden  were 
frosted  with  ice,  and  the  air  was  gloomy  with  another  coming 
storm,  they  seemed  to  find  no  drawback  in  these  circumstances, 
and  only  played  on  all  the  more  merrily,  as  the  shades  of  twi- 
light warned  them  they  would  soon  have  to  give  up  their  game. 
They  had  raised  a  parapet  of  snow  between  some  trees  and  the 
garden  wall,  and  behind  this  Arthur  Darrell  (who,  in  spite  of  his 
being  at  college,  was  by  no  means  above  finding  amusement  with 
boys  and  girls),  had  entrenched  himself  with  his  two  little  cousins, 
Susan  and  Constance.  They  were  engaged  in  a  vigorous  defence 
of  their  fortress  against  a  no  less  vigorous  attempt  to  dislodge 
them  from  it  made  by  Fred  and  Charley — boys  of  fourteen  and 
twelve — aided  by  Lisa  Kennedy,  the  latter  by  no  means  the  least 
energetic  of  the  party. 

"With  her  dress  tucked  up,  her  hat  falling  off,  and  her  hair  in 
wild  disorder,  she  danced  about,  the  gayest  of  them  all,  little 
dreaming  of  the  news  that  had  come  that  day,  or  of  the  sad  fate 
of  the  mother  whose  life  had  so  long  been  shrouded  in  mystery. 
There  was  no  shadow  on  her  face;  no  trace  of  sadness  in  the 
clear  tones  of  her  voice,  and  her  laugh  was  merriment  itself; 
careless  unthinking  merriment,  as  if  no  such  things  as  doubt  or 
sorrow  had  ever  crossed  her  path.  With  the  childish  earnestness 
that  always  characterised  her  pursuit  of  any  pleasure,  she  was 
absorbed  in  her  game,  and  had  not  a  thought  beyond  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  moment.  Darting  backwards  and  forwards,  gather- 
ing up  the  snow  in  handfuls,  and  aiming  it  with  unerring 
precision  at  the  besieged  party,  she  proved  herself  quite  as 
formidable  an  antagonist  as  either  of  her  boy-cousins,  being  as 


8  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

reckless  as  tliey  were  of  the  balls  which  Arthur  most  ungallantly 
flung  back  at  her  with  no  sparing  hand,  greeting  each  with  fresh 
peals  of  mirth,  and  only  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  brush  tbe 
snow  from  her  dress,  or  collect  new  supplies  for  another  attack. 
Taking  advantage  of  a  diversion  on  the  part  of  her  fellow-assail- 
ants, which  took  off  Arthur's  attention,  she  made  a  rush  on  the 
unprotected  side  of  the  parapet,  and  seizing  the  flag  that  was 
fixed  there  (a  stick  with  a  red  handkerchief  tied  to  it),  she  waved 
it  above  her  head  with  a  gay  shout  of  triumph,  and  jumped  down 
into  the  enclosure.  The  other  besiegers  followed  her  example, 
and  a  loud  hurrah  from  everybody  proclaimed  that  the  fortress 
was  taken.  That  '  hurrah '  brought  their  amusement  to  an  end, 
for  it  roused  Mrs  Tennent  from  the  reverie  in  which — a  most 
unusual  thing  for  her — she  had  been  indulging  over  the  fire 
after  her  husband  left  her. 

*  Call  them  in,  Elinor  !'  she  said,  looking  up ;  '  I  had  no  idea 
they  were  out  of  doors.' 

Elinor,  a  pale,  delicate,  but  rather  pretty  girl,  with  blue  eyes, 
and  a  profusion  of  dark  hair,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window  with 
her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  rose  from  her  seat  with  evident 
reluctance,  and  walked  slowly  from  the  room.  She  shivered  as 
she  went  into  the  hall,  and  taking  up  a  shawl,  threw  it  round 
her  before  she  gathered  courage  to  open  the  garden  door  and 
summon  the  party  into  the  house  ;  although,  when  she  had  done 
so,  she  did  not  retreat  at  once,  but  stood,  waiting,  it  seemed,  for 
them  to  make  their  appearance.  Some  little  delay  took  place 
before  the  mandate  was  obeyed ;  but  at  length  they  came  troop- 
ing in,  all  in  various  stages  of  indignation  at  being  interrupted 
in  the  midst  of  their  delightful  occupation.  Fred  and  Charley 
even  went  so  far  as  to  vote  that  their  sister  ought  to  be  rolled  in 
a  snow  drift  for  being  the  bearer  of  such  unwelcome  tidings,  while 
Arthur  came  behind,  dragging  on  the  unwilling  Susan  and  Con- 
stance, who  were  hanging  to  his  coat  tails,  and  uttering  lament- 
able remonstrances.  Lisa  was  the  only  one  who  was  silent ;  but 
that  was  because  she  was  endeavouring  to  unfasten  a  very  intri- 
cate-looking knot  in  the  strings  of  her  hat. 

'  Well ! '  she  remarked  at  last,  '  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  wear 
this  thing  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  for  I  can't  untie  it,  and  I 
mayn't  cut  the  strings.  What  can  I  do,  Arthur?  Will  it  look 
very  odd  if  I  go  about  in  this  way  all  my  days'?' 

An  appeal  at  which  Arthur  turned  round,  and  contemplated 
her  for  a  moment  or  two  with  much  gravity. 


LISA.  9 

'  A-hem  !'  he  said,  'we  won't  say  anything  about  the  singular- 
ity of  yonr  appearance.  Still,  if  it 's  a  case  of  necessity,  I  think 
you  may  make  yourself  comfortable  by  the  reflection  that  the 
appendage,  though  novel,  is  not  unbecoming.  Only — excuse  me 
— ^you  might  look  a  little  more  easy  and  natural.  At  present 
you  have  the  appearance  of  being  in — what  shall  I  call  it — in 
decidedly  embarrassed  circumstances. 

*  And  so  I  am,  for  I  am  nearly  choked.  O  Arthur !  it  was 
one  of  your  snow-balls  that  knocked  it  off,  and  it  would  only  be 
charitable  of  you  to  help  me,  instead  of  standing  there  laughing 
at  me.' 

*  Admiring  you,  you  mean.  But  why  didn't  you  pull  it  on 
again  when  I  knocked  it  off,  and  then  you  would  never  have 
been  in  this  dreadful  difficulty.  Let  me  see,  though,  what  I  can 
do;  I  lay  any  wager  I'll  have  it  off  in  half  a  second.'  And  before 
Lisa  could  stop  him,  he  had  the  hat  in  his  hand,  much  to  her 
astonishment,  although  she  exclaimed  in  consternation,  when  she 
saw  a  deplorable  slit  in  it,  in  consequence  of  the  ribbon  having 
been  violently  torn  from  the  straw, 

'  And  a  lot  of  my  hair  he  has  taken  too  !  What  a  wretch  you 
are,  Arthur ;  and  look  what  a  hole  you  have  made  here  !  I 
don't  know  what  Aunt  Helen  will  say  when  she  sees  it.  I  shall 
get  such  a  scolding.' 

*  Nonsense,  ask  Lane  to  patch  it  up  ;  she'll  soon  make  it  right. 
And  it 's  not  worse  than  it  was  before.  I've  seen  the  top  of  it 
flapping  about  for  the  last  three  weeks.  Bat  it  is  only  in  keep- 
ing with  the  rest  of  your  dress ;  you  are  about  one  of  the  most 
perfect  specimens  of  the  tag-rag-and-bobtail  tribe  I  ever  saw.' 

He  glanced  as  he  spoke,  and  Lisa  followed  the  direction  of  his 
eye.  She  certainly  did  not  present  a  very  reputable  figure,  as  far 
as  her  toilette  was  concerned,  for  her  boots  and  stockings  were 
wet  through,  her  petticoat  was  adorned  with  numerous  formid- 
able-looking rents,  and  her  dress  was  torn  from  the  gathers,  and 
trailed  on  the  ground  behind  her.  Her  hair,  too,  had  fallen  down, 
and  hung  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  in  a  wet,  tangled  mass  of 
brown  and  gold.  But  in  spite  of  the  disadvantages  under  which 
she  appeared,  nothing  could  detract  from  the  rare  loveliness  of 
her  face  and  form,  and  Arthur's  glance  was  one  quite  as  much  of 
admiration  as  of  pretended  disdain  at  the  state  of  her  dress. 
From  her  earliest  childhood,  Lisa  had  always  been  noted  for 
her  extreme  beauty — a  beauty  which  would  have  attracted  atten- 
tion at  any  time,  from  its  perfectness  of  feature  and  delicacy  of 


10  ATHERSTONE  PEIORY. 

outline  and  colouring,  but  which  a  brilliant  smile  and  the  win- 
ning expression  of  her  large  hazel  eyes  rendered  irresistible.  But 
she  had  not  yet  learned  to  look  for  the  admiration  with  which 
none  could  help  regarding  her  ;  and  perhaps  the  utter  absence 
of  self-consciousness  was  by  no  means  one  of  her  least  charms. 
She  did  not  notice  the  look  on  her  cousin's  face,  being  quite  en- 
gaged with  examining  the  state  of  her  attire.  As  she  was  well 
accustomed,  however,  to  constant  fault-finding  on  the  subject, 
she  did  not  seem  much  alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  the  scolding 
in  store  for  her ;  and  after  having  stuck  a  pin  in  the  gathers  of 
her  dress,  and  contemplated  her  tattered  petticoat  for  a  few 
moments,  she  looked  up  with  a  laugh. 

*  Never  mind,  it  can't  be  helped.  You  are  not  much  better 
yourself,  Arthur.  Look  at  that  mud  on  your  coat — and  look  at 
your  boots !     Oh,  he  is  a  figure  !  isn't  he,  Nelly  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  think  he  is  ;  there  is  not  much  to  choose  between  you 
all,'  was  the  answer.  *  You  look  very  like  scarecrows,  every  one 
of  you — but  perhaps  you  are  the  worst,  Lisa.  And  now  I  advise 
you  to  go  and  make  yourselves  respectable  before  anybody  sees 
you.' 

'  You  are  not  complimentary,'  retorted  Arthur.  ^  And  why 
didn't  you  come,  Nelly,  and  make  scarecrow  number  seven,  in- 
stead of  staying  indoors  in  that  grand  and  dignified  manner,  as 
if  you  were  too  good  for  us  poor  mortals  1  I  thought  you  liked  a 
game  as  well  as  any  one.' 

^  So  I  do,  some  games — but  not  all.  Snowballing  I  can't  bear. 
It  makes  one  so  wet.' 

^  You  didn't  mind  it  last  winter,'  persisted  Arthur ;  *  you  used 
to  join  in  it  then.  But  I  see  what  it  is,'  he  added,  with  an  odd 
look.  '  It  is  the  coming  out  that  has  done  it.  Now  that  you 
are  a  young  lady,  you  can't  condescend  to  such  trifling  amuse- 
ments. Ah,  well — that 's  the  way  of  the  world  !  Lisa,  you  see 
what  you  will  come  to.  When  you  arrive  at  Nelly's  age  there 
will  be  an  end  of  all  fun  for  you.  What  will  become  of  me, 
then,  I  wonder  1  I  shall  desert  the  Priory  until  I  have 
arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  and  can  be  a  proper  companion 
for  all  the  young  ladies  I  shall  find  here.' 

Elinor  coloured  a  little  at  this  speech,  and  looked  rather  stiff, 
but  Lisa  laughed. 

*  Well,  there's  plenty  of  time  for  you  to  stay,  Arthur ; 
you  needn't  go  yet.  I  shan't  be  a  grown-up  young  lady  for 
two  years  to  come  ;  and  not  then  if  I  can  help  it.      0  Nelly  ! 


LISA.  11 

we've  bad  the  most  glorious  fun  this  afternoon  !  That  was 
the  Kedan  we  were  attacking — we  were  English  and  Eussians. 
Arthur  was  Eussian,  but  of  course  Fred  and  I  wouldn't  be 
anything  but  English ;  and  Charley  joined  us,  so  we  had  to 
storm  the  fort.  We  got  in  at  last,  though  we  got  some  good 
hard  blows  before  we  did.  Arthur  hits  so  hard  ;  it  was  no  joke 
getting  a  knock  with  one  of  his  balls.  They  were  almost  as  bad 
as  the  real  Eussian  bullets.' 

'  Not  exactly/  remarked  Arthur ;  *  Percy  will  have  a  different 
tale  to  tell  you  about  Eussian  bullets,  Miss  Lisa.' 

*  Yes,  indeed,'  said  Elinor,  with  a  shudder.  *  Don't  talk, 
Lisa,  as  if  fighting  were  nothing.  You  might  know  better  than 
that,  for  I  am  sure  we  have  heard  enough  about  it  lately.  It  is 
dreadful.' 

Arthur  laughed,  and  Lisa  opened  her  eyes.  '  Is  it  ?  I  like 
to  hear  about  it ;  and  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  be  a  soldier.  I 
wish  I  were  one,  and  I'd  go  off  directly,  and  come  in  for  all  the 
fighting.     You  forget  the  glory,  Elinor.' 

^  Ah,  yes,  the  glory  !  that 's  it,'  exclaimed  Arthur.  ^  That 's  all 
she  thinks  of — 

The  combat  deepens.     On  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave. 

Wasn't  that  what  I  heard  you  saying  this  morning,  Lisa,  in  the 
green  walk  ?  And  she  looked  so  excited  that  I  thought  she  meant 
to  rush  off  herself  *^  to  glory  or  the  grave."  And  there  was  old 
Bar  tramping  up  and  down  by  her  side  in  a  state  of  perfect  be- 
wilderment at  her  rhapsodies.  He  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  the  scene.' 

*  Arthur,  you  are  horrid ! '  Lisa  exclaimed,  in  intense  indig- 
nation, and  growing  very  red.  She  jumped  up  intending  to 
stuff  a  handkerchief  into  his  mouth,  but  he  backed  out  of  her 
way.  *  I  didn't  know  you  were  there,  or  I  shouldn't  have  said 
it ;  and  it's  a  shame  of  you  to  make  fun  of  me.  I  '11  never  speak 
to  you  again,  if  you  don't  mind.' 

*  Not  till  next  time,'  said  Arthur  coolly,  and  looking  at  her 
flashing  eyes  in  much  admiration.  *  I  declare  it's  a  pity  she  's 
not  a  soldier,  as  she  wishes — isn't  it,  Nelly  ?  How  I  used  to 
like  to  see  her  last  year  poring  over  the  papers,  and  growing  so 
excited  about  everything  that  went  on  out  there.  But  lately  it 
has  been  very  tame  work,  and  if  peace  is  declared,  as  everybody 
says,  what  will  you  do  1      Happily,  Percy  will  be  at  home,  and 


12  ATHERSTONE  PBIORY. 

you  can  make  a  demi-god  of  him,  if  you  like.  That  you  are 
prepared  to  worship  him,  I  can  see  in  your  face  whenever  his 
name  is  mentioned.' 

Lisa  stamped  the  snow  from  her  boots  energetically.  '  I  am 
not  prepared  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  I'll  leave  that  for 
Isabel.  I  like  to  hear  of  all  the  brave  things  our  soldiers  do — 
but  I  don't  care  for  Percy  one  bit,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  him — 
he's  not  the  sort  of  man  that ' 

*  That  you  can  make  a  hero  of.  You  want  an  Adonis  for  that, 
and  he  is  not  one  ;  I  understand.' 

'  You  don't,  Arthur ;  I  said  nothing  about  an  Adonis — you 
don't  know  what  I  mean  at  all ;  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  any 
more,*  she  added,  stopping  her  ears  as  he  was  beginning  again,  *  I 
can't  stay  now — it's  tea-time.' 

She  marched  off,  Arthur  following  her  to  her  great  disgust, 
and  chanting  in  a  solemn  voice, 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet ; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  mark  a  soldier's  cemetery. 


CHAPTER  11. 

THE   LIKENESS   IN   MARY'S   ROOM. 

It  was  about  an  hour  afterwards,  that  Mrs  Tennent,  on  her 
way  down-stairs,  heard  a  chorus  of  voices,  proceeding  from  a 
room  which  was  used  as  a  study,  and  usually  went  b)^  the  name 
of  ^  Mary's  room,'  because  it  was  there  that  Mary,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  family,  officiated  as  governess  when  she  was  at 
home.  She  was  away  now,  having  been  in  London  for  nearly 
a  month  nursing  her  brother,  who  had  been  invalided  home 
from  the  Crimea.  But  they  were  expected  that  evening,  and 
apparently  it  would  be  no  bad  thing  for  some  of  the  party  to 
have  Mary's  quiet  rule  exercised  among  them  again.  Mrs 
Tennent  thought  so,  certainly,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
room,  and  not  being  observed  stood  a  silent  spectator  of  the 
confusion  that  prevailed. 

Presiding  over  the  tea-tray,  sat  Lisa,  with  her  hair  still  hang^ 
ing  down  her  back,  and  on  either  side  of  her,  with  their  mouths 
full  of  bread  and  butter,  lounged  Susan  and  Constance,  while 


LISA.  13 

Arthur,  who  had  turned  in  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 
was  assisting  little  George,  the  year-and-a-half-old  baby,  to  make  a 
circuit  round  the  table  among  the  cups  and  plates — a  performance 
received  with  vehement  applause  by  Fred  and  Charley,  but 
which  had  already  been  attended  by  some  disasters  in  the  shape 
of  two  cups  of  tea  upset,  and  a  plate  and  saucer  broken.  The 
immediate  cause  of  the  uproar  was  George's  having  set  his 
foot  in  the  middle  of  the  butter,  and  the  feat  had  elicited  such 
shouts  of  laughter  from  everybody,  that  he  seemed  very  anxious 
to  repeat  the  exploit.  Mrs  Tennent's  entrance  was  in  time  to 
prevent  this  ;  and  her  face  of  displeasure,  as  she  walked  up  to 
the  table,  speedily  put  an  end  to  the  commotion. 

'Let  Lane  take  him  away,' she  said,  coldly;  'if  he  is  the 
cause  of  such  a  disturbance,  he  must  not  stay  here.  Eing  the 
bell,  Constance.' 

Constance  jumped  up  from  her  chair  in  haste,  and  Susan  sat 
bolt  upright  suddenly,  and  laid  down  an  enormous  piece  of 
bread  and  butter  which  had  been  about  to  follow  its  pre- 
decessors, while  George  puckered  up  his  rosy  lips,  and  burst 
into  a  howl.     Arthur  looked  a  little  foolish. 

*  I  don't  think  he  has  done  much  damage,'  he  said,  with  a 
glance  at  the  fragments  of  broken  china.  *  But  I  '11  take 
him  to  Lane  myself.  Don't  cry,  my  man;  you  shall  walk 
on  the  floor  as  much  as  you  like,  that  will  be  better  than  the 
butter.  Keep  me  another  cup  of  tea,  Lisa,  I  shall  be  back  in  a 
minute.' 

There  was  something  in  his  tone,  in  spite  of  its  would-be 
penitence,  that  provoked  a  titter,  and  although  Mrs  Tennent 
took  no  notice  of  it,  his  promise  of  returning  probably  influenced 
her,  for  instead  of  leaving  the  room,  she  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table  and  sat  down,  most  efiectually  checking  by  her  presence  any 
more  approaches  to  merriment.  The  four  younger  ones  did  not 
speak  a  word,  and  Arthur,  when  he  came  back,  drank  off  his 
tea  in  all  haste,  and  vanished  again,  much  to  the  dismay  of  Lisa, 
who  was  in  secret  dread  of  what  might  be  coming  when  he  went. 
Nor  were  her  apprehensions  without  foundation  ;  for  when  tea 
was  over,  and  she  was  making  an  attempt  to  escape  unobserved, 
she  was  stopped  peremptorily,  and  desired  to  come  back.  The 
others  were  sent  away,  and  then  began  a  lecture  such  as  Mrs 
Tennent  alone  knew  how  to  administer,  and  which,  accustomed 
as  Lisa  was  to  such  things,  was  formidable  even  to  her.  She 
stood   silent  and  downcast,  while  her  aunt  went  through  the 


14  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

catalogue  of  all  her  misdoings  during  the  last  month,  and  sighed 
inwardly  as  she  listened  to  the  long  list  of  offences,  most  of 
which  had  been  forgotten  as  soon  as  committed  ;  while  as  a 
wind-up,  Mrs  Tennent  recurred  to  the  scene  she  had  just 
witnessed,  which  proved,  she  said,  how  little  her  niece  was  to  be 
trusted.  Instead  of  taking  her  cousin  Mary's  place  while  she 
was  absent,  as  had  been  expected  of  her,  she  had  made  no 
attempt  to  keep  order  among  the  others,  but  had  encouraged 
unruliness  by  her  own  example.  But  that  was  not  the  way  to 
fit  herself  for  the  post  which,  as  she  well  knew,  she  would  one 
day  have  to  fill.  How  would  she  be  able  to  undertake  the  care 
of  others,  if  she  did  not  first  learn  to  conduct  herself  properly. 
She  must  remember  that  she  was  growing  up  now,  that  the 
home  in  which  she  was  living  was  not  her  own,  and  that  in 
two  or  three  years  she  would  have  to  begin  life  as  a  governess. 
She  ought  to  make  the  most  of  the  advantages  she  was  having, 
and  learn  to  fit  herself  for  her  future  duties.  And  Mrs  Tennent 
went  on  to  speak  of  the  gratitude  which,  if  no  consideration  for 
her  own  interests  could  do  so,  ought  to  influence  her,  while  she 
hinted,  in  no  very  ambiguous  terms,  that  she  much  feared  no 
such  feeling  had  any  existence  in  her,  or  she  surely  would  have 
more  thought  for  those  who  were  showing  her  kindness,  and 
would  study  to  please  them. 

Lisa  listened  to  it  all  in  silence,  without  attempting  a  reply 
of  any  kind  ;  but  the  crimson  colour  that  dyed  her  cheeks  grew 
deeper  and  deeper  as  her  aunt  alluded  to  her  dependent  position, 
and  the  motives  that  ought  to  actuate  her ;  and  when  Mrs  Tennent, 
having  delivered  her  lecture,  left  the  room,  she  stood  there  stil]. 
It  was  not  till  the  door  closed,  that  she  roused  herself,  and 
looking  round  with  a  quick,  hurried  glance,  as  if  to  make 
sure  she  was  alone,  threw  herself  down  by  the  side  of  a  low 
chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  there  hiding  her  face,  sobbed 
bitterly.  Whether  her  tears  were  those  of  grief  or  anger,  would 
have  been  hard  to  say ;  perhaps  there  was  a  mixture  of  both  in 
them  ;  for  her  clenched  hand,  and  the  fierce,  hard  way  in  which 
she  drew  her  breath,  seemed  to  speak  quite  as  much  of  passion 
as  of  sorrow. 

But  Lisa's  stormy  fits,  violent  as  they  were,  seldom  lasted 
long  ;  and  when  she  had  lain  there  for  some  minutes,  and  cried 
until  she  had  exhausted  herself,  her  sobs  died  away,  and  she  sat 
up  again,  brushing  away  her  tears,  and  looking  as  if  she  were 
ashamed  of  the  passion  to  which  she  had  given  way.     She  had 


THE  LIKENESS  IN  MARY'S  ROOM.  15 

hardly  begun  to  collect  her  thoughts  when  a  step  in  the  passage 
near  caught  her  ear,  and  she  started  from  the  floor,  dreading 
nothing  so  much  as  to  be  surprised  in  any  exhibition  of  feel- 
ing. 

The  person  who  entered  the  room  was  very  different  to  Mrs 
Tennent.  She  was  taller  and  darker  and  younger — but  not 
very  young,  for  all  that,  for  she  could  not  have  been  far  off 
thirty  j  and  the  grave  and  thoughtful  look  upon  her  face,  when 
it  was  in  repose,  made  her  appear  even  older.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  face,  however,  even  though  it  could  lay  claim  to  no 
beauty,  and  was  considered  by  some  people  to  be  remarkably 
plain.  But  that  was  by  people  who  did  not  know  her  well ; 
by  those  who  did,  nothing  was  ever  noticed  but  the  unvarying 
expression  of  sweetness  that  marked  her  features.  By  her 
brothers  and  sisters  Mary  was  perfectly  idolised ;  so  entirely 
had  she  w^on  their  love  that  it  was  a  fact  seldom  remembered  by 
the  younger  branches  of  the  family  that  she  was  not  their  own 
sister.  More  especially  was  she  loved  by  poor  Lisa,  to  whom  she 
had  taken  a  mother's  place  ever  since  the  day  when,  worse  than 
orphan,  she  had  first  been  brought  there ;  and  who  clung  to  her 
with  an  affection  that  was  all  the  deeper  because  there  were  so 
few  on  whom  she  could  bestow  it.  She  sprang  forward  now, 
with  a  face  that  was  radiant  with  pleasure,  and  from  which 
every  trace  of  sorrow  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

^  Mary,  dear  Mary  !  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !  When  did  you 
come?  and  what  was  I  doing  that  I  didn't  hear  you?'  She 
threw  her  arms  round  her  cousin,  and  bestowed  on  her  such  an 
embrace  that  it  was  quite  a  wonder  Mary  did  not  come  out  of  it 
half  demolished.  *  What  an  age  it  is  since  you  went  away  !  It 
seems  like  four  months  instead  of  not  four  weeks.  I  am  so 
glad — so  very  glad  you  are  come  back ! ' 

*  So  am  I  glad  to  be  back,'  said  Mary,  with  a  smile;  *it  is 
very  pleasant  to  be  at  home  again.  But  what  are  you  doing 
here  alone,  Lisa  dear  1  Is  anything  the  matter  1 '  she  asked, 
looking  at  the  long  wet  hair,  and  the  eyelashes  still  fringed  with 
tears. 

But  Lisa  only  smiled.  '  Something  was  the  matter,  but  never 
mind ;  it  will  be  all  right  now  you  are  here  again.  Aunt  Helen 
has  been  scolding  me,  and  that  made  me  cry,  but  I  don't  mind 
it  now.'  And  then,  seeing  her  cousin  looking  at  her  anxiously, 
she  added  sorrowfully,  *  The  truth  is,  Mary,  that  I  have  been 
very  bad.     I  have  forgotten  everything,  and  done  all  the  worst 


16  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

things  you  can  imagine.  I  don't  know  how  they  happened ; 
for  when  you  went,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be  extra  well- 
behaved,  and  go  on  better  than  when  you  are  here.  And  I 
did  at  first — I  really  think  I  did — but  somehow  things  got 
wrong  afterwards.  I  didn't  mean  to  forget,  but  I  did ;  and  I 
have  been  all  wrong.' 

*  Yes,  I  see,'  said  Mary,  thoughtfully  ;  '  it  was  a  pity,  Lisa.' 

*  It  was,'  said  Lisa,  very  earnestly,  *  it  was  a  great  pity  ;  for  I 
am  sure,  if  anybody  ever  meant  to  be  steady,  I  did.  And  yet 
I  have  vexed  everybody,  and  done  no  good  at  all.  Madame 
Ilicard  is  very  angry  with  me,  and  says  she  shall  tell  you  how 
careless  I  have  been;  and  so  does  Mrs  Dalton.  That  was 
because  I  forgot  to  practise  a  new  piece  she  had  given  me. 
Aunt  Helen  is  very  angry  too — you  will  hear  all  sorts  of  things 
about  me  from  her.  And  Mary,  she  says  I  am  ungrateful — but 
I  am  not  that — oh,  I  am  not  that — indeed  I  am  not ! '  And 
Lisa  burst  into  tears  again.  '  You  don't  think  it  of  me,  do  you  ? 
You  don't  think  me  so  bad  as  that  ? ' 

'  No,  indeed  I  don't.  My  dearest  little  Lisa,  don't  cry  in 
that  way.  No  one  who  knew  you  would  believe  such  a  thing  ; 
I  think  you  must  have  misunderstood  mamma.  She  never 
meant  to  say  that,  I  am  sure.' 

*  Yes,  she  did — she  said  it  two  or  three  times  over.  But 
if  you  don't  believe  it,  Mary,  I  won't  mind.  You  never  would 
think  it,  though,  I  know — you  are  sure  I  could  never  be  un- 
grateful to  you,  if  I  were  to  anybody  else.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  leave  off  loving  you,  when  you  have  been  so  kind 
to  me,  and  made  me  happy  ever  since  I  came  here.  I  should 
be  a  wretch  if  I  didn't  love  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  a 
great  deal  more  than  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world.  I 
would  do  anything  for  you.  At  least,'  she  stopped,  '  I  always 
thought  I  would,  but — it 's  that  makes  me  so  sorry  now,  because 
you  see  I  haven't  remembered  half  the  things  you  wanted 
me  to  do.' 

*  Never  mind,'  said  Mary,  cheerfully  ;  *  you  will  have  another 
opportunity,  and  you  will  take  more  care,  I  am  sure.  And  now, 
if  you  are  not  very  sorry  I  am  come  back,  perhaps  you  won't 
mind  helping  me  dress  for  dinner,  or  I  shall  be  late  ;  it  must  be 
nearly  half-past  six.' 

'  Twenty  minutes  past,'  said  Lisa,  glancing  at  the  timepiece. 
*  Oh,  that 's  plenty  of  time  ;  I  can  dress  you  in  ten  minutes 
comfortably.    If  you  will  sit  down  here  in  front  of  the  fire  and 


•  THE  LIKENESS  IN  MARy's  ROOM.  17 

warm  yourself,  I  '11  run  and  fetch  your  things.  I  looked  out  your 
evening  dress  before  tea,  so  it  is  all  ready.  And  I  '11  do  your 
hair — I  can  always  make  that  look  nice,  you  know — though 
Aunt  Helen  does  say  I  never  do  my  own  fit  to  be  seen.'  And 
Lisa,  having  her  thoughts  diverted  from  herself,  began  to  take  a 
cheerful  view  of  life  again,  and  danced  off  in  search  of  her 
cousin's  things  almost  in  her  usual  spirits. 

*  And  so  Percy  is  really  here  1 '  she  said,  when  she  had  returned, 
and  was  standing  carefully  arranging  Mary's  hair  in  the  way  she 
knew  she  liked  best;  *he  is  really  here,  and  he  is  better, 
isn't  her 

There  was  a  sigh  from  Mary.  ^  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  They 
wouldn't  have  let  him  travel  if  he  had  not  been ;  but — I  don't 
know.  I  was  too  sanguine  at  first,  I  believe,  and  so  I  have 
been  disappointed.  I  didn't  think,  when  I  went  away,  that  it 
would  be  so  bad.     He  has  suffered  so  very  much,  poor  fellow  1' 

Her  sigh  was  very  audible  this  time,  and  Lisa's  face  fell. 
*  But  he  will  get  well  here,'  she  said ;  *  he  will  get  well  much 
faster  than  in  London.  He  is  sure  to  be  better  soon,  and  it  is  a 
great  deal  pleasanter  both  for  him  and  you  to  be  at  home 
again.' 

^Yes,  so  it  is;  and  he  was  very  anxious  to  come.  I  only 
hope  he  has  not  come  too  soon — before  he  was  fit  for  the 
journey,  I  mean.  I  had  no  idea  till  yesterday  morning  that 
the  surgeons  would  let  him  travel  at  present,  but  of  course 
directly  they  said  it  would  make  no  difference,  we  were  only 
too  glad  to  get  away.  He  wished  so  much  to  come  that  it  was 
difficult  to  persuade  him  to  be  at  all  prudent.' 

Lisa  was  silent.  She  knew  nothing  of  illness,  and  conse- 
quently was  hardly  able  to  enter  into  Mary's  fears  with  regard 
to  her  brother.  But  the  anxiety  unconsciously  betrayed  in  her 
cousin  s  tone  infected  her,  and  for  a  few  moments  she  remained 
very  thoughtful. 

*  He  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  well,'  she  said  at  length, 
as  she  was  putting  in  the  last  hair-pin  ;  *  he  will  be  here  quite 
till  the  summer,  won't  he  ?  How  very  nice  it  will  be  for  you, 
Mary,  having  him  at  home  so  long ! '  The  latter  part  of  this 
speech  was  decidedly  magnanimous,  for,  as  she  had  before 
asserted,  Lisa  had  by  no  means  any  particular  fancy  for  her 
cousin  Percy,  and  as  far  as  she  w^as  concerned,  would  not  have 
been  at  all  sorry  if  he  had  still  been  doing  duty  in  the  trenches 
before  Sebastopol.     She  was  a  little  disappointed  to  find  that 

B 


18  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

her  magnanimity  was  thrown  away,  and  that  her  words  did  not 
produce  all  the  effect  that  was  intended.  Her  cousin  smiled, 
indeed,  but  it  was  more  at  the  eager  tone  than  anything  else, 
and  she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  rather  sadly  upon  the  fire, 
forgetting  apparently  that  there  was  any  need  for  haste,  till  Lisa 
pointed  to  the  hands  of  the  clock,  which  were  just  upon  the 
half-hour.  She  got  up  then,  and  began  slowly  to  put  on  her 
dress. 

*  Yes,  it  will  be  very  pleasant,'  she  said,  after  a  pause  ;  '  very 
pleasant,  indeed,  when  I  once  see  him  getting  up  his  strength, 
and  looking  more  as  he  used  to  do ;  but  he  is  quite  worn  out  now 
with  pain  and  looks  so  old  and  haggard,  that  it  makes  my  heart 
ache  to  see  him.  And  sometimes  I  wonder,  Lisa,  whether  they 
have  told  us  right — whether  he  ever  will  be  strong  and  well 

again,  or '    She  stopped  suddenly,  and  Lisa  looked  at  her, 

hardly  comprehending  what  she  meant.  She  had  no  time,  how- 
ever, for  remarks  or  questionings,  for  the  dinner-bell  rang  at 
that  moment,  and  Mary,  recovering  herself  by  a  strong  effort, 
finished  the  rest  of  her  toilet  in  haste  and  left  the  room. 

*  Thank  you,  dear,  for  helping  me,'  she  said  as  she  went 
away ;  *  and  the  sooner  you  can  finish  drying  your  hair  and 
come  down,  the  better.    We  shall  not  be  long  at  dinner  to-day.' 

The  door  closed  upon  her,  and  Lisa,  left  once  more  to  herself, 
sat  down  upon  a  low  stool  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  took  up  a 
book,  as  if  she  were  going  to  read  ;  but  as  she  held  the  volume 
upside  down,  most  probably  she  was  not  much  the  wiser  for  its 
contents.  Her  thoughts  were  running  instead  upon  her  cousin 
Percy,  and  while  thinking  of  him,  her  eye  turned  to  a  certain 
picture,  belonging  to  Mary,  and  which  hung  over  the  piano  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  It  was  the  likeness  of  a  young 
oflGlcer  in  the  dress  of  the  engineers,  and  it  was  from  that  alone 
that  Lisa  had  been  able  to  form  any  idea  of  the  cousin  whose 
acquaintance  she  was  about  to  make.  He  had  been  absent  from 
England  when  she  first  came  to  live  at  the  Priory,  and  the  only 
time  that  he  had  ever  been  at  h5me  since,  she  had  happened  to 
be  staying  with  friends  in  London  ;  and  as  he  had  been  ordered 
abroad  suddenly,  soon  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  Crimean 
war,  they  had  never  met.  She  knew  nothing  of  him  but  what 
she  had  heard  from  Mary  and  her  other  cousins,  and  the  sort  of 
acquaintance  she  had  made  with  him  from  contemplating  that 
likeness  every  morning  for  several  years,  while  going  through 
her  major  and  minor  scales,  and  other  exercises  which  she  knew 


LE  BALAFRE.  19 

SO  thoroughly  that  she  had  no  need  to  give  her  thoughts  to  them. 
Beyond  the  fact,  however,  of  having  looked  at  it  as  she  would 
have  looked  at  anything  else  hanging  there  during  a  wearisome 
occupation,  she  had  never  regarded  it  with  much  interest  unti) 
she  found  she  was  likely  to  know  the  original.  Then  she  had 
studied  it  with  great  curiosity,  not  only  during  her  practising 
hours,  but  at  other  times  also  j  and  the  opinion  she  had  arrived 
at  was  by  no  means  favourable  for  her  cousin.  She  did  not  like 
him.  He  was  plain — very  plain — to  begin  with,  and  she  never 
liked  such  very  plain  people — they  were  always  disagreeable. 
That  deep-set  eye  and  contracted  brow  were  not  prepossessing, 
and  there  was  something  hard  and  determined  about  his  mouth, 
and  in  those  thin  compressed  lips,  which  gave  her  the  idea  that 
his  temper  was  not  to  be  trusted.  If  there  had  not  been  a 
certain  likeness  to  Mary  in  his  face,  she  would  have  disliked  him 
extremely ;  as  it  was,  she  did  not  exactly  do  that,  but  she  was 
sure  that  she  did  not  care  to  know  him.  She  wished  he  would 
have  stayed  away  a  little  longer — that  he  had  not  been  obliged  to 
come  home  at  all  while  she  was  there  ;  and  in  her  dislike  to  going 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  she  knew  she  must  meet  him,  she 
sat  lingering  over  the  comfortable  fire  up-stairs  until  a  peremptory 
message  from  her  aunt  summoned  her  to  go  down,  with  the 
pleasant  reflection,  as  she  did  so,  that  she  was  certain  to  receive 
a  reprimand  for  not  having  made  her  appearance  sooner. 


CHAPTER    III. 

LE     ALAFR^. 

It  was  a  popular  tradition  at  the  Priory  that  Lisa  did  not 
know  how  to  walk,  and  whether  this  were  true  or  not,  certain 
it  is  it  was  an  art  which  she  practised  very  little.  She  ran, 
danced,  jumped,  and  skipped ;  but  a  sober  walk  was  a  thing 
in  which  she  seldom  indulged,  and  only  in  cases  of  absolute 
necessity,  when  she  had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  Upon  receiving 
her  aunt's  message,  she  twisted  up  her  hair  in  a  great  hurry, 
and  went  flying  off  down-stairs  in  her  usual  fashion,  running 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  at  full  speed,  and  clearing  the  four 
or  five  lower  steps  at  a  jump — a  not  very  safe  proceeding,  for 
the  hall  and  stairs  were  highly  polished,  and  a  slip  on  her 
part  might  have  entailed  a  broken  limb  or  a  sprained  ankle. 


20  ATHERSTONE  PaiORY. 

But  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  come  down  in  this 
way,  and  did  it  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  she  was  much 
surprised  now,  as  she  was  stooping  to  look  for  a  thimble  which 
she  had  dropped  in  her  haste,  to  hear  some  one  close  beside 
her  say, — 

*  Eather  dangerous  work  that,  Susan.  I  hope  it  is  not  your 
■usual  way  of  coming  down-stairs/ 

*  Susan  !  I  'm  not  Susan  ! '  she  exclaimed,  raising  her  head 
in  some  astonishment,  and  wondering  for  the  moment  who 
could  have  made  such  a  mistake.  A  single  glance  showed 
her  that  it  was  a  stranger — her  cousin  Percy,  of  course,  as 
she  remembered  directly  afterwards — and  recalling  her  late 
meditations  with  regard  to  him,  and  the  dislike  with  which  she 
had  looked  forward  to  making  his  acquaintance,  she  got  up  in 
no  little  confusion.  He  was  standing  at  the  dining-room  door, 
which  was  close  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  as  their  eyes 
met,  he  seemed  almost  as  much  surprised  as  herself. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during 
which  she  was  quite  uncertain  whether  to  stay  or  run  away ; 
*  I  beg  your  pardon  :  I  thought  it  was  Susan  coming  down. 
You  have  not  hurt  yourself,  I  hope.' 

Perhaps  he  was  not  accustomed  to  seeing  young  ladies  of 
sixteen  flying  about  in  such  an  ofF-hand  fashion,  and  although 
Lisa  was  quite  unconscious  of  having  compromised  the  dignity 
of  her  age,  she  felt  that  this  was  not  exactly  the  way  in 
which  she  would  have  liked  to  be  introduced  to  this  very 
formidable  cousin,  and  her  colour  rose  a  little. 

'  No,  thank  you,  I  am  not  hurt,'  she  said  hastily ;  *  I  was 
only  looking  for  something  I  dropped.  It  was  my  thimble — 
but  I  have  found  it  now.' 

She  produced  it  as  if  in  demonstration  of  the  fact,  and 
was  turning  away  w^hen  he  stopped  her. 

*  As  there  is  no  one  else  to  do  it,  I  think  we  must  introduce 
ourselves.     We  are  cousins,  are  we  not  ]     You  are ' 

He  paused,  as  if  he  still  had  his  doubts  whether  the  very 
young-looking  girl  before  him,  with  so  much  of  the  child 
about  her,  could  possibly  be  the  cousin  whom  he  had  perhaps 
pictured  to  himself.  But  he  was  not  left  long  in  uncertainty, 
for  she  looked  up  in  some  surprise  at  his  hesitation. 

'Yes,  you  are  quite  right.  I  am  Lisa — Lisa  Kennedy. 
And  you  are  my  cousin  Percy,'  she  was  about  to  have  added, 
but  the  name  sounded  too  familiar,  and  she  corrected  herself. 


LE  BALAFRE.  21 

*  And  you  are  Captain  Tennent,  of  course.  I  knew  you  directly 
I  saw  you,  and  I  thought  you  knew  me/  It  was  said  so  simply 
that  it  w^ould  have  provoked  a  smile  from  most  people,  but 
there  was  not  the  shadow  of  one  upon  his  face. 

*  I  "svas  not  sure,'  he  said,  gravely ;  *  but  as  we  know  each 
other  now,  I  suppose  we  may  shake  hands  ? ' 

*  I  suppose  we  may,'  Lisa  said,  rather  shyly,  taking  the  hand 
he  held  out.  He  was  so  different  to  any  one  else  at  the  Priory, 
and  was  so  much  taller  and  older  looking  than  she  had  ever 
imagined,  that  she  was  wofully  afraid  of  him  ;  and  as  they 
walked  across  the  hall  together  towards  the  drawing-room, 
she  felt  such  a  tiny,  insignificant  creature  by  his  side,  that 
her  trepidation  increased  tenfold.  She  would  have  liked  to 
make  a  rush,  and  gain  the  door  of  the  room  without  him, 
but  it  would  have  seemed  unkind,  for  she  noticed  that  he 
walked  with  difficulty,  and  was  obliged  to  use  a  stick  ;  and  to 
run  away  and  leave  him  under  the  circumstances  was  impossible. 
The  transit  across  the  hall,  however,  appeared  a  perfect  journey 
to  her,  and  she  was  infinitely  relieved  when  the  drawing-room 
was  reached,  and  he  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass. 

*  Thank  you,'  and  without  venturing  to  look  at  him,  she  slipped 
into  the  room,  feeling  very  happy  to  be  sheltered  amongst  num- 
bers, and  thinking  even  a  scolding  from  her  aunt  preferable  to 
being  alone  with  such  a  very  tall,  grave-looking  person.  But  Mrs 
Tennent  happened  to  be  writing  a  note,  for  which  a  servant  was 
waiting,  and  contented  herself  with,  *  You  are  very  late  to-night, 
Lisa.  What  has  kept  you  so  long]'  as  her  niece  passed  her ;  and 
Lisa,  glad  to  escape  so  easily,  murmured  an  excuse  of  some  sort 
and  then  stole  away ;  and  finding  an  empty  chair  by  Arthur's  side 
at  a  distant  table,  sat  down  there  with  her  work.  She  would 
have  liked  to  join  Mary,  who  was  sitting  near  the  fire  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  but  Percy  had  taken  possession  of  a  sofa  in  the 
same  neighbourhood,  and  she  thought  she  would  rather  be  away 
from  him.  She  felt  more  at  her  ease  w^here  she  was,  and  was 
not  sotry  to  find  herself  in  a  position  where  she  could  make  her 
observations  without  fear  of  notice  on  his  part.  She  had  scarcely 
seen  him  in  the  hall ;  the  glance  she  had  taken  at  him  there  had 
not  told  her  much,  and  she  was  anxious  to  see  whether  he  at  all 
resembled  the  picture  she  had  been  studying  so  long.  A  very 
short  inspection  was  sufficient  to  assure  her  of  the  truth  of  the 
general  likeness,  for  the  features  were  undoubtedly  the  same ;  but 
years  of  service,  and  much  illness  and  hardship,  had  not  tended 


22  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

to  soften  or  improve  a  face  which,  even  with  youth  and  freshness 
to  recommend  it,  had  never  prepossessed  her  in  its  favom^ ;  and 
if  she  had  thought  the  Percy  Tennent  with  whom  she  was  familiar 
most  decidedly  plain-looking,  the  original  by  no  means  disabused 
her  of  that  idea.  Sunburnt,  and  worn,  and  thin,  without  even 
the  advantage  of  a  pleasing  smile  or  expression  to  redeem  his 
features  from  their  natural  harshness,  there  was  little  in  him  to 
attract — much  to  repel;  and  when,  after  long  observation,  she 
finally  settled  down  into  her  first  conviction  that  he  was  not  only 
plainer  than  anybody  she  had  ever  seen,  but  as  harsh  and  as 
unpleasing  as  he  looked,  she  was  but  sharing  a  very  general 
opinion.  There  were  some  who  thought  differently,  but  not 
people  who  met  him  casually ;  and  Lisa,  like  many  others,  went 
by  first  impressions,  and  made  up  her  mind  accordingly  that  she 
could  never  like  him.  He  lay  back  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  on 
which  he  had  established  himself,  and  took  no  part  in  what  was 
going  on  around  him ;  and  although  he  had  a  paper  in  his  hand, 
it  seemed  to  serve  him  more  as  an  excuse  for  not  speaking  than 
anything  else,  for  he  did  not  appear  to  read  much  of  it.  Pain 
and  weariness  were  written  in  every  line  of  his  face  ;  but  though 
Lisa  was  sorry  for  him,  and  more  sorry  still  for  Mary,  of  whose 
anxieties  she  could  now  understand  something,  she  did  not  feel 
inclined  to  reverse  her  unfavourable  opinion,  and  as  she  sat 
watching  him  very  earnestly,  her  countenance  betrayed  in  no 
small  degree  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  A  low,  smothered 
laugh  from  Arthur  interrupted  her  meditations  and  made  her 
look  round. 

*  Well,  Lisa,  what 's  the  result,  of  your  investigations  ?  You  Ve 
studied  him  long  enough,  and  must  know  him  by  heart.  Is  he 
handsome — the  Adonis  you  want  for  your  hero  V 

*  Handsome  !  He 's  ugly — positively  ugly  ! '  Lisa  exclaimed. 
*  Who  would  think  he  was  Mary's  brother  ?  You  never  told  me 
he  was  so  very  bad  looking,  Arthur,  that  I  was  going  to  see  any- 
body so  really  and  truly  ugly.' 

*  Of  course  not.  How  could  I  tell  you  would  think  him  so  ? 
People  have  different  tastes,  and  for  anything  I  knew,  you  might 
have  admired  him  very  much.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  never  thought  anything  of  the  sort!'  exclaimed 
Lisa,  indignantly.  *  He  really  is  ugly — there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it.  The  only  thing  that  can  be  said  for  him  is,  that  he 
looks  like  a  gentleman ;  but  that  can't  prevent  his  being  very, 
veri/  plain.      He  has  black  hair^  too,  and  black  eyebrows,  which  I 


LE  BALAFRE.  23 

particularly  detest.    And  what  is  that  scar  on  his  forehead  ?    Is 
that  a  Crimean  decoration  1 ' 

*  Crimean  ?  no ;  it  was  there  the  last  time  he  was  here.  I 
don't  know  how  he  got  it.  It 's  an  honourable  one,  I  Ve  no 
doubt.' 

'  Very  likely ;  but  it  don't  improve  him.  I  shall  call  him  Le 
Balafr^ — it  will  be  a  good  name  for  him.  Is  that  the  reason  why 
he  wears  his  hair  so  low — to  try  and  hide  it  1  Well,  he  does 
contrive  to  make  himself  frightful.  And  I  think  he  must  be 
blind,  by  the  way  he  shuts  his  eyes  when  he  looks  at  things. 
Altogether,  I  don't  like  him,  Arthur — I  don't  like  his  looks  at 
all.' 

^  Don't  you  ?  That 's  a  pity,  because  I  am  afraid  he  can't 
alter  them.  And  allow  me  to  remark.  Miss  Lisa,  that  you 
ought  not  to  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  dislike  people  for  what 
they  can't  help.  I  thought  you  had  more  sense  than  to  go  by 
looks  only.' 

*  That 's  right,'  said  Lisa,  with  a  laugh ;  ^  I  always  like  to  have 
one  of  your  moral  reflections,  Arthur.  I  begin  to  fancy,  then, 
what  sort  of  sermons  you  will  preach  some  day,  and  I  am  very 
anxious  to  hear  them.' 

*  Are  you  1  Well,  it 's  a  pleasure  I  've  no  doubt  you  '11  have. 
And  I'll  tell  you  what,  when  I'm  hard  up  for  a  subject,  I'll 
take  our  present  one  to  discourse  upon.  It  would  make  a  first- 
rate  sermon  with  proper  handling.  Never  judge  by  appearances. 
I  declare  I  '11  make  a  note  of  it,  and  when  it 's  preached  you  shall 
be  one  of  the  congregation,  and  remember  that  it 's  meant  for 
your  edification.' 

*  Very  well,'  said  Lisa,  looking  delighted.  *  But  it  must  be 
preached  in  this  church,  or  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  run  a  chance  of 
not  hearing  it.'  And  then  changing  her  tone  :  *  But  you  don't 
understand  what  I  mean  about  people  being  ugly,  and  my  not 
liking  them  for  it.  You  say  they  can't  help  it,  but  I  am  sure 
they  can ;  for  it  isn't  bad  features  only  that  make  a  person 
plain.  It  is  expression ;  and  every  one  can  give  themselves  a 
pleasant  expression  if  they  like  :  if  they  don't,  it  must  be  because 
they  've  nothing  pleasant  in  them.' 

*I  see,  most  sapient  philosopher.  But  then  if  good  looks 
depend  upon  expression,  they  depend  of  course  upon  the  mood 
in  which  each  individual  finds  himself.  So  a  man  who  goes  to 
bed  very  amiable  and  handsome,  may  get  up  in  the  morning 
out  of  temper  or  out  of  spirits,  and  very  ugly — or  vice  versd. 


24  ATHERSTONE  PEIORY. 

And  then  don't  you  see  what  you  come  to  1  For  if  such  trans- 
formations take  place  in  other  men,  why  not  in  Le  Balafre? 
There  's  no  reason  why  he  should  not  turn  out  as  handsome  as 
anybody,  for  he 's  not  by  any  means  the  Caliban  you  take  him 
for.  Barring  a  little  pride  and  a  little  hot  blood,  no  one  can  find 
much  fault  with  him.' 

^  Proud  and  hot  tempered!'  exclaimed  Lisa,  triumphantly;  *I 
knew  it.  Those  very  thin  lips  are  always  a  sign  of  bad  temper. 
And  his  way  of  carrying  himself  shows  he  is  proud.  Any  one 
can  see  that.' 

^Military  drill!'  said  Arthur,  with  a  laugh.  ^You  are  pre- 
judiced, if  you  can't  let  a  man  walk  as  he  likes  without  setting 
him  down  as  proud.  But  you'll  change  your  mind  some  day. 
What  do  you  bet,  that  when  I  come  home  in  June,  I  don't  find 
you  and  Le  Balafre  fast  friends,  and  you  swearing  that  there 
**  never  was  nobody  "  like  him  in  the  whole  wide  world  1  Come, 
let's  have  a  wager.  AVhat  shall  it  be?  Half-a-dozen  pair  of 
white  gloves,  or ' » 

'  Or  nothing.  I  wouldn't  take  it.  How  fond  you  are  of  your 
bets,  Arthur.  It  is  not  at  all  proper  for  a  clergyman  that  is  to 
be;  and  this  is  such  a  ridiculous  one.  I  won't  take  advantage 
of  you  -J  I  '11  be  generous,  and  spare  your  pocket,  for  I  'ni 
sure  you've  no  money  to  throw  away  on  white  gloves,  or  any- 
thing else.' 

'  Never  mind,  that 's  my  look-out,  not  yours.  You  take  the 
bet,  and  I  '11  risk  the  gloves.  Moreover,  so  sure  and  certain  do 
I  feel  of  not  having  to  pay  them,  that  if  you  like  I  '11  make  it  a 
dozen  instead  of  half.     What  do  you  say  to  that  V 

'  Lisa,'  said  Mrs  Tennent,  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  *  I 
don't  think  that  work  of  yours  is  getting  on  very  fast.  Pray 
don't  sit  there  looking  at  your  needle  and  never  putting  in  a 
stitch.  No  doubt  your  conversation  is  interesting,  but  if  you 
can't  work  as  well  as  talk,  you  had  better  change  your  seat.' 

Lisa's  head  went  down  at  this  speech,  and  her  needle  began 
to  fly  in  and  out  with  astonishing  rapidity ;  while  Arthur 
shrugged  his  shoulders  privately,  and  Susan,  who  had  been  an 
attentive,  though  unnoticed,  listener  to  what  was  passing,  re- 
marked in  an  audible  voice, — 

'  They  w^ere  talking  about  betting.  Arthur  wants  Lisa  to  have 
a  wager  about  Percy,  because  she  says '- 

'Susan,  hold  your  tongue,'  exclaimed  Arthur,  in  such  a 
peremptory  tone   that    Susan  looked  scared.     '  What    does   it 


WHAT  LISA  THINKS  OF  HER  COUSIN.  25 

matter  to  you  what  we  were  talking  about  ?  you  were  not  asked 
to  listen.  Little  pitchers  have  no  business  with  long  ears, 
and  if  they've  the  misfortune  to  have  them,  they've  no  right 
to  have  long  tongues  too.  Be  off  with  you.  I  want  to  read.' 
And  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  stretching  out  his 
legs  at  full  length,  he  took  up  a  book,  while  Susan  walked  away, 
looking  injured,  and  Lisa  went  off  into  a  merry,  though  subdued, 
laugh  over  her  work.  Happening,  however,  to  raise  her  eyes 
again,  she  encountered  the  fixed  gaze  of  her  cousin  Percy,  who  had 
evidently  been  watching  her  for  some  time.  He  dropped  his 
glass  and  took  up  his  paper  as  their  eyes  met,  but  not  before 
Lisa  was  aw^are  of  the  scrutiny  to  which  she  had  been  subjected. 
Resenting  it,  in  her  fashion,  she  pushed  her  chair  out  of  sight, 
and  relapsed  into  total  silence.  For  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing no  one  again  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT   LISA   THINKS   OF   HEE   COUSIN. 

*  Good-bye,  Scaramouch,'  said  Arthur,  as  he  was  standing  in 
the  hall  on  the  following  day,  waiting  for  his  uncle,  who  was 
going  to  drive  him  to  the  station,  '  good-bye,  Scaramouch ;  and 
so  you  won't  take  my  wager  after  all.  Do  you  know,  though, 
what  I  've  serious  thoughts  of  doing  ?  and  that  is  of  asking  Le 
Balafr^  to  take  you  in  hand.  Perhaps  he  may  be  able  to  effect 
a  reformation  in  one  or  two  particulars,  and  I  'm  sure  we  should 
all  feel  grateful  to  him  for  so  doing.' 

Lisa,  a  deplorable  figure  as  usual  from  ink,  a  torn  dress,  and 
untidy  hair,  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  dance  which  she 
was  performing  round  the  table  with  Georgie,  and  looking  at 
him  for  a  moment,  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh. 

*  I  should  like  to  see  him  interfering  with  me  !  Don't  you 
put  him  up  to  that,  Arthur,  or  I  '11  never  speak  to  you  again,  or 
to  him  either.  There  's  no  need  I  should  quarrel  with  him, 
though  I  don't  like  him.  Let  us  alone,  if  you  please,  and  don't 
make  me  angry  for  nothing.' 

*  Very  well,  my  fair  cousin,'  said  Arthur,  looking  at  her  raised 
colour  and  sparkling  eyes  with  a  smile.  ^  I  leave  you  to  your 
own  devices  then,  hoping  that  some  day  you  will  see  the  error  of 
your  ways  and  mend  them.     And  your  dress,  too,'  he  added, 


26  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

pointing  to  it ;  ^  there  won't  be  much  of  it  left  soon  if  you  don^t 
mind.     Good-bye.' 

^  Good-bye  !'  exclaimed  Lisa,  springing  forward,  her  mom  en* 
tary  anger  having  vanished.  '  O  Arthur,  I  'm  so  sorry  you  are 
going !  We  've  had  such  fun  this  Christmas,  and  it  will  be  so 
stupid  when  you  are  away  !  Can't  you  come  at  Easter  and  not 
wait  till  June  1  Do  say  you  will,  and  then  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  look  forward  to.' 

Arthur  gave  a  whistle.  *  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  It 's  such  a 
long  journey  for  such  a  short  time.  No,  I  don't  think  I  shall 
leave  Cambridge  at  all.  I  mean  to  read  hard,  and  get  myself 
thoroughly  stupified ;  and  when  summer  comes,  I  shall  run  down 
here  to  be  knocked  into  life  again.  We  '11  have  more  fun  then, 
and  Nelly  will  join  us  I  've  no  doubt,  as  she  '11  be  safe  from  the 
snowballing.' 

Elinor,  to  whom  this  was  addressed,  paused  as  she  was  pass- 
ing through  the  hall. 

*  Perhaps  so — I  don't  know.  I  have  not  much  time  for  that 
kind  of  thing,  and  I  don't  care  for  it  either.  Oh  dear,  how 
cold  it  is !  How  long  is  that  door  going  to  be  open,  Fred  1 
Can't  you  shut  it  till  they  are  ready  V 

*  It 's  no  use,'  shouted  Fred,  '  here 's  papa  I'  And  Dr  Tennent, 
who  had  just  been  dismissing  a  patient,  making  his  appearance 
from  his  consulting-room,  a  general  shaking  of  hands  and  good- 
byes followed ;  and  off  went  Arthur. 

^  Till  June!  What  an  immense  time!'  sighed  Lisa  to  her- 
self as  she  went  up-stairs,  feeling  very  dull ;  and  having  depo- 
sited little  George  in  the  nursery,  she  walked  off  to  Mary's  room 
to  get  some  consolation.  It  was  a  place  where  she  was  sure  to 
find  it  in  all  her  troubles,  and  kneeling  down  by  the  fire,  she 
poured  out  her  lamentations  to  Mary,  who  had  been  writing 
when  she  came  in,  but  put  away  her  letters  when  she  found  her 
cousin  wanted  her  attention,  and  listened  very  sympathisingly 
to  all  she  had  to  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  the  last  few  weeks. 
They  had  a  long  talk  together,  which  had  the  effect  of  restoring 
Lisa  to  her  accustomed  spirits,  though  she  could  not  help  wind- 
ing up  with  another  sigh  at  Arthur's  departure,  and  the  remark 
that  'it  was  a  pity,  a  very  great  pity,  that  he  was  obliged  to  go.' 

*  So  it  is,'  said  Mary,  good-naturedly;  *he  is  very  pleasant, 
and  I  like  him  very  much.  But  after  all,  Lisa,  one  can't  spend 
one's  whole  life  in  amusement.  And  he  will  have  to  work  hard 
by  and  by,  so  that  it 's  only  right  he  should  be  getting  ready  for 


WHAT  LISA  THINKS  OF  HER  COUSIN.  27 

it  now;  and  he  couldn't  do  that  if  he  stayed  here.  Besides,  I 
think  you  won't  be  sorry  yourself  to  begin  again  regularly  :  you 
would  tire  in  time  of  nothing  but  fun  and  pleasure.' 

'  I  don't  know  that/  said  Lisa,  rather  doubtfully ;  '  I  never 
have  tired  of  it  yet,  and  I  don't  fancy  I  ever  should.  I  suppose, 
though,  Mary,'  she  added,  with  a  smile,  *  I  suppose  that  means 
you  would  like  to  see  me  set  to  work  1  You  think  I  have  been 
idle  quite  long  enough  V 

Mary  smiled  too.  '  Something  of  the  sort  certainly.  From  a 
good  many  signs  in  the  room,  I  should  say  there  was  a  great  deal 
to  be  done.  Your  German  books  look  as  if  they  had  not  been 
opened  since  I  went  away ;  and  I  came  across  a  French  exercise 
in  that  drawer  just  now  hardly  begun.  To-morrow  is  Madame 
Eicard's  day,  you  know,  and  I  'm  afraid  you  are  not  ready  for 
her.' 

'No,  that  I'm  sure  I'm  not.  The  old  crosspatch  1  Don't 
scold,  Mary  dear ;  she  really  is  cross,  and  the  last  time  she  was 
here  she  was  particularly  so.  She  gave  me  such  quantities  to 
write  that  I  was  in  despair,  so  I  just  shut  the  books  up  and 
have  never  looked  at  them  since.  But  I  will  now.  I  '11  begin 
at  once  and  work  very  hard,  and  that  will  make  the  days  go 
faster.  I  can  always  work  when  you  are  here,  because  you  keep 
me  up  to  it.'  And  Lisa,  whose  industrious  moods  generally  came 
by  fits  and  starts,  jumped  up  from  her  kneeling  posture  and  was 
making  a  rush  to  the  drawer  in  question  when  Mary  stopped  her. 

'  I  think,  dear,  before  you  begin  it  would  be  quite  as  well  to 
go  and  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass.  You  surely  can  have  no 
idea  what  a  figure  you  are.  I  never  remember  seeing  you  so  un- 
tidy, and  if  it  is  the  holidays  which  have  brought  you  to  such  a 
state,  I  must  say  I  think  it 's  no  bad  thing  they  are  over.' 

She  spoke  so  gravely  that  Lisa  looked  rather  ashamed.  *  Am 
I  so  untidy  ? '  she  said.  *  I  didn't  know  it.  Arthur  said  some- 
thing, too ;  but  then  he  is  always  teasing  me  about  my  dress. 
Am  I  really  very  badf 

*  Yes,  very  bad — very  untidy,  indeed.  And  really,  dear  Lisa, 
that  is  one  thing  in  which  you  have  not  improved  at  all  lately. 
Even  Percy  noticed  this  morning  how  untidy  you  were,  and 
asked  me  if  you  always  went  about  in  that  way.  He  dislikes  ex- 
ceedingly to  see  people  careless  and  slovenly  in  their  dress;  and 
I  was  rather  sorry  that  you,  my  eldest  pupil,  should  have  taken 
so  little  trouble  to  look  neat.' 

Lisa  coloured,  and  for  some  minutes  stood  twisting  a  piece 


28  ATHEBSTONE  PRIORY. 

of  thread    in   her   fingers  without    making  any  answer.     But 
she  hooked  up  presently. 

*  Very  well,  Mary,  I  '11  go  if  you  like,  and  try  what  I  can 
do ;  but  (in  a  very  doleful  voice)  ^  I  really  don  t  see  that  it 
is  of  much  use,  for  I  cannot  keep  myself  tidy,  do  what  I 
will  My  things  are  very  unfortunate  ;  they  are  like  nobody 
else's.  They  ivill  tear  and  they  will  come  to  pieces  ;  and  all 
my  hooks  and  eyes  and  buttons  come  off,  and  all  my  hair- 
pins tumble  out ;  and  I  lose  everything  and  never  find  any- 
thing again,  so  how  I  am  to  be  neat  I  can't  tell ;  I  suppose 
it 's  my  fault — everybody  says  so,  but  I  don't  know  how  to 
be  different.  And  you  say  now  I  am  worse  than  ever,  and 
that  is  very  disheartening,  because  I  had  been — well,  no,  I 
can't  say  that  exactly,  for  I  don't  think  I've  thought  much 
about  it  lately.  But  I  '11  begin  again  now.  I  '11  try  to  please 
you.'  And  as  if  impelled  by  fresh  energy,  she  gave  two  or 
three  hops  towards  the  door,  but  paused  before  she  reached  it. 

'  Mary,  there 's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  say  if  you  don't 
mind.' 

^  Well,  dear  ? '  And  Mary  looked  up  from  the  writing  she 
was  beginning  again. 

'I  hope  yoii  won't  care  very  much — I  mean  I  hope  you 
won't  be  disappointed  or  vexed  if — if  I  don't  particularly 
like  Percy.     As  he  is  your  brother,  I  ought  to  like  him,  but ' 

*  But  you  don't.  I  am  not  so  unreasonable,  Lisa,  as  to 
expect  you  to  like  him  before  you  know  him.  You  have  had 
no  time  yet  to  make  his  acquaintance.' 

^  Yes,  but  when  I  do  know  him,  I  mean,'  persisted  Lisa. 
*  Will  you  be  very  much  vexed  then  if  I  don't  like  him  ? ' 

'  Not  in  the  least,'  said  Mary,  with  a  smile ;  '  you  are 
quite  at  liberty  to  like  him  or  not  without  any  fear  of  vexing 
me.  I  suppose,  though,  as  you  say  that,  you  think  there  is  no 
chance  of  your  doing  so.' 

'  Kot  mucb,'  said  Lisa,  balancing  herself  on  one  foot,  as 
she  often  did,  when  she  was  meditating.  *  He 's  not  like  you, 
Mary/  she  added  after  a  pause. 

^  No,  not  at  all.  At  least  not  in  most  things.  I  believe 
he  is  in  a  few.' 

*  In  face  I  meant,'  said  Lisa ;  *  he 's  not  half  so  good- 
looking  as  you  arc.  In  fact,  Mary,  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
my  saying  it,  but  I  don't  think  him  good-looking  at  all.' 

Mary  laughed.     *  No  more    do   I,  Lisa.     Though  he  is  my 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.  29 

own  brother  and  I  love  him  very  dearly,  I  have  never  thought 
him  good-looking;  but  I  know  him  so  well  and  love  him  so 
much,  that  I  only  think  of  what  he  is  himself,  and  if  he 
were  twice  as  plain  as  he  is,  he  would  do  well  enough  for 
me.     It  would  make  no  difference  in  my  love  for  him.' 

Lisa  made  no  answer  to  this,  her  private  opinion  being 
that  no  one  could  possibly  be  plainer  than  Percy  was  already 
— ^as  for  being  twice  as  plain,  that  was  out  of  the  question  ; 
but  she  did  not  say  so,  and  after  balancing  herself  very 
dexterously  on  her  one  foot  for  a  few  moments  longer,  she 
went  away,  remarking  as  she  left  the  room  : 

*  Well,  I  'm  glad,  Mary,  you  won't  feel  hurt  if  I  don't  like 
him.  I  was  afraid  you  w^ould,  and  I  should  be  so  sorry  to 
vex  you.  I  am  very  sorry,  too,  that  you  were  ashamed  of 
me  this  morning.  I'll  go  and  make  myself  tidy,  and  see  if 
I  can't  keep  so,  to  please  you.* 


CHAPTER  V. 

MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 

*  0  Mary  !  such  fun  !  We  've  been  to  Copelands  this  afternoon. 
Mr  Pye  has  a  new  hunter,  such  a  beauty  !  And  one  of  the  cows 
has  a  calf,  and  three  of  the  hens  are  sitting,  and  there  will  be 

some  chickens  in  a  day  or  two ;  and  the  old  drake ' 

Lisa  stopped  short  in  the  midst  of  her  list  of  attractions  to 
be  found  at  Copelands,  for  she  discovered  that  her  cousin  was 
not  alone  as  she  had  expected.  Percy  was  wdth  her,  and  Mrs 
Tennent  also  ;  and  it  was  the  latter's  look  of  displeasure  which 
brought  the  above  speech  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  Lisa  indeed 
had  certain  vague  notions  that  she  was  not  exactly  in  a  pre- 
sentable state,  and  when  she  found  who  was  there,  would  have 
been  glad  to  make  her  escape  again ;  but  as  this  was  impossible, 
she  thought  it  best  to  appear  unconcerned,  and  stood  where  she 
was,  playing  with  an  immense  bunch  of  primroses  she  had  in 
her  hand.  Anything  more  exquisitely  lovely  than  she  looked 
at  that  moment  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  imagine.  The 
high  March  wind  had  raised  her  colour  and  blow^n  her  light- 
brown  wavy  hair  about  her  face,  and  her  dark  eyes  were  spark- 


30  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

ling  half  with  pleasure,  half  with  mischief,  as  she  raised  a  furtive 
glance  to  her  aunt  to  discover  what  was  coming. 

*  I  wish,  Lisa,  you  would  learn  to  come  into  a  room  more  like 
a  lady,  instead  of  rushing  in  in  that  wild  way.  Pray  shut  the 
door  directly,  and  then  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  to  make 
yourself  such  a  figure.  Have  you  been  in  the  pond,  child,  to 
get  so  dreadfully  wet?'  She  looked  angrily  at  the  half -dried 
mud  and  green  duck-weed  clinging  to  her  niece's  skirts  and 
boots,  and  Lisa  appeared  somewhat  dismayed  as  she  took  in  the 
whole  extent  of  the  damage  done  to  her  dress.  She  walked  to 
the  door,  however,  and  closed  it,  and  then  came  back,  pulling 
on  her  hat,  which  the  wind  had  blown  off,  and  pushing  back 
her  hair. 

'I'm  very  sorry,  Aunt  Helen,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,'  she 
began. 

'  Of  course  not ;  you  never  can  help  anything,'  rejoined  Mrs 
Tennent.  *  But  if  you  can't,  I  should  like  to  know  who  can. 
What  were  you  doing,  I  should  like  to  know?  Nothing  that 
was  proper  for  a  young  lady,  I  am  sure.' 

Lisa  glanced  at  Percy,  who  would  have  left  the  room,  but 
that  they  were  standing  too  near  the  door  to  allow  him  easy 
egress,  so  he  could  only  look  unconscious,  and  keep  his  eyes  on 
the  page  before  him. 

*  It  was  the  wind,'  she  said.  *  My  hat  was  blown  off,  and  I  had 
to  run  across  some  fields  after  it.  A  man  tried  to  catch  it  for  me, 
but  he  let  it  go  again,  and  he  couldn't  run  so  fast  as  I  did ;  so 
when  it  was  blown  into  a  ditch  I  got  there  first ;  and  I  jumped 
down  into  a  lot  of  water — I  didn't  know  there  was  any  there ; 
it  all  looked  green  and  dry.  It  was  great  fun  ! '  she  added,  with 
a  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  forgetting  for  the  moment  the  awe  inspired 
by  her  aunt's  presence. 

*  Indeed  !  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  should  not  have  thought 
carelessness  could  be  fun  at  any  time  :  and  you  must  have  been 
extremely  careless  to  let  your  hat  go  in  that  way.  And  nobody 
but  yourself  would  have  dreamed  of  jumping  into  a  ditch, 
without  looking  to  see  if  there  were  water  in  it  or  not.  I  am 
very  much  displeased  with  you,  Lisa ;  but  of  course  that  is 
nothing  to  you.  You  will  be  sorry  though,  a  few  years  hence, 
that  you  have  not  tried  to  please  me  more.  If  you  have  any 
right  feeling,  that  is ;  but  really  I  doubt  if  you  have,  or  you 
would  not  give  me  the  annoyance  you  do.' 

And  Mrs  Tennent,  in  a  state  of  high  displeasure,  walked  from 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.  31 

the  room,  leaving  Lisa  almost  blinded  with  the  tears  which  the 
latter  words  had  called  forth. 

'  Is  that  true,  Mary  f  she  said,  raising  her  head,  and  speaking 
with  a  sob.  *  Is  that  true  ?  Have  I  no  right  feeling  at  all  1 
And  she  came  to  the  back  of  her  cousin's  chair,  and  Sung  her 
arms  round  her  neck ;  *  I  didn't  know  I  had  done  anything  so 
very  bad.  You  are  not  angry  with  me  as  well  as  Aunt  Helen 
are  jouV  she  said  in  an  imploring  tone;  and  then,  as  some 
movement  from  Percy  recalled  her  to  a  sense  of  his  presence, 
she  loosed  her  hold  of  her  cousin  quickly,  and  stood  up  again, 
with  deepening  colour  and  embarrassed  look.  '  I  brought  these 
flowers  for  you,  Mary,'  she  said,  holding  out  the  primroses.  *  I 
got  them  for  you  in  the  woods ;  I  thought  you  would  like 
them.'  And,  laying  them  down  upon  the  table,  she  rushed  away 
without  looking  round  again. 

There  were  no  traces  of  tears  in  Lisa's  bright  eyes  the  next 
time  Percy  saw  her.  Childlike,  she  had  thrown  off  all  thought 
of  trouble,  and  she  sang  and  danced  with  Georgie  in  the  back 
drawing-room  that  evening,  as  she  always  did,  and  looked  as  if 
she  had  never  known  a  care  in  her  life.  She  was  paler  than 
usual,  certainly ;  but  there  was  good  reason  for  that,  for  sundry 
sneezing  and  shivering  fits  betokened  very  plainly  a  coming  cold ; 
and  nobody  would  have  wondered  at  this,  had  it  been  generally 
known,  that  she  had  sat  on  the  brick  floor  of  Mrs  Pye's  wash- 
house  for  nearly  an  hour  that  afternoon  in  her  wet  clothes, 
helping  to  put  peppercorns  down  the  throats  of  several  ducklings 
that  had  been  just  hatched.  Of  course  she  had  never  thought 
of  the  probable  effects  of  sitting  so  long  in  a  damp  dress  and 
soaked  boots ;  and  as  Mrs  Tennent  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
coddling  her  children,  or  making  much  of  small  ailments,  very 
little  notice  was  taken  of  her  present  symptoms.  She  was  sent 
to  bed  rather  earlier  than  usual,  and  told  to  ask  Lane  to  give 
her  something  warm ;  but  meeting  her  favourite,  the  white  cat, 
as  she  was  going  up-stairs,  she  stayed  to  have  a  game  with  it, 
and  when  she  reached  the  nursery  forgot  to  give  her  message, 
sitting  down  with  the  nurse  instead,  to  a  supper  of  bread  and 
cheese,  and  going  to  her  own  room  much  later  than  usual. 

She  came  down  the  next  day  with  very  heavy  eyes,  and 
evidently  far  from  well ;  but  as  she  talked  and  laughed,  and 
rushed  about  the  house  with  undiminished  spirits,  no  one  paid 
much  attention  to  her  looks.  Percy  perhaps  was  the  only  person 
who  perceived  anything  amiss,  though  he  did  not  say  much  till 


32  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY, 

the  afternoon,  when,  to  his  great  astonishment,  she  made  her 
appearance  in  the  drawing-room,  ready  equipped  for  a  walk,  and 
cpme  to  ask  her  aunt's  permission  for  them  all  to  go  to  tea  at 
Copelands. 

Copelands  was  a  small  farm  about  two  miles  from  Atherstone. 
It  belonged  to  Dr  Tennent,  and  was  let  by  him  to  a  respectable 
man  and  his  wife,  with  whom  the  younger  members  of  the  Priory 
were  on  a  most  friendly  footing.  Mr  and  Mrs  Pye  had  no 
children  of  their  own,  and  were  very  fond  of  young  people. 
They  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have  visits  from  the  doctor's 
family,  to  whom  the  farm  offered  numberless  attractions.  The 
pleasures  of  playing  in  the  barn  and  out-houses,  visiting  the 
stables,  milking  the  cows,  and  chasing  unlucky  fowls  and  pigs, 
were  irresistible,  nor  did  Lisa  consider  herself  by  any  means  too 
old  for  such  amusements.  Going  to  tea  with  Mrs  Pye  when 
they  sat  in  the  sanded  kitchen  in  very  high-backed,  hard, 
uncomfortable  chairs,  at  a  white  deal  table,  and  ate  off  pewter 
plates,  but  always  with  the  best  of  cheer  before  them  (for  the 
good  lady  was  very  proud  of  her  home-made  bread,  her  cakes, 
cream  and  butter),  was  to  Lisa  a  pleasure  which  she  would  not 
have  missed  for  a  good  deal.  She  had  not  a  thought  now  for 
colds  or  coughs,  or  anything  else,  and  although  there  was  an 
east  wind  blowing,  and  the  sky  was  clouding  over  as  if  some 
heavy  showers  might  be  expected,  she  did  not  seem  to  think 
these  any  reasons  for  staying  at  home.  Her  only  fear  appeared 
to  be  lest  her  aunt  should  remember  her  carelessness  of  the  day 
before,  but  Mrs  Tennent  was  deep  in  a  new  book,  and  gave  the 
desired  permission  without  raising  her  eyes.  In  high  glee  Lisa 
was  turning  away,  when  Percy  stopped  her. 

*  You  surely  are  not  going  out  such  a  day  as  this,  and  with 
that  bad  cold  upon  you,  Lisa.  You  have  no  idea  how  damp 
and  raw  it  is.' 

Lisa  looked  excessively  annoyed.  *  Aunt  Helen  says  I  may 
go.  It  won't  hurt  me.  Please  don't  keep  me,'  she  exclaimed, 
in  an  agony  of  impatience,  and  trying  to  pass  him  as  he  stood 
with  his  hand  upon  the  door.  But  it  was  too  late.  Mrs 
Tennent's  attention  had  been  caught. 

*  I  forgot  your  cold,  Lisa ;  Percy  is  right,  it  won't  do  for  you 
to  go,  Susan  and  Constance  may  if  they  like,  but  you  will  be 
much  better  at  home.' 

*  O  Aunt  Helen,  it  won't  hurt  me  ;  my  cold  is  nothing.  Do 
let  me  go,'  she  exclaimed,  entreatingly. 


HISUNDERSTANDINGS.  33 

*  Certainly  not,'  said  Mrs  Tennent,  taking  up  her  book  again. 
*  Go  and  take  oif  your  bonnet  at  once,  and  don't  let  me ,  hear 
another  word  about  it.' 

Lisa  retired.  When  her  aunt  spoke  in  that  way,  she  knew 
well  enough  it  was  useless  to  say  more,  and  she  left  the  room  in 
a  grievous  state  of  disappointment.  In  the  hall  she  came  again 
upon  Percy,  and  then  her  anger  blazed  forth. 

'  Thank  you,  Captain  Tennent,  for  stopping  my  pleasure,'  she 
said,  scornfully,  as  she  passed  him.  *  I  am  much  obliged  to  you 
for  your  interference.' 

He  turned  round.      '  But  Lisa ' — 

Lisa,  however,  had  no  intention  of  listening  to  anything  he 
had  to  say.  With  the  angry  colour  in  her  cheek,  and  a  flash  in 
her  eye,  she  stamped  her  foot  at  him,  and  went  off  like  an 
arrow  from  a  bow.  He  heard  her  fleet  step  up  the  stairs  and 
along  the  passage,  and  then  a  distant  door  was  flung  to  with 
great  violence,  and  a  dead  silence  followed.  She  had  taken 
refuge  in  her  own  room,  and  there,  in  a  very  stormy  mood,  she 
paced  up  and  down,  until  her  wrathful  feelings  began  to  work 
themselves  off,  and  then  she  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  A  shower  had  come  on,  and  the  rain  was  dripping  heavily 
from  the  eaves  of  the  house  and  among  the  leafless  lime-trees 
close  by.  She  stood  there  and  watched  until  it  passed  off,  and 
a  gleam  of  sunlight  came  out  again  upon  the  green  lawn,  and 
sparkled  on  the  glistening  rain-drops  that  hung  from  the  boughs 
above  her  window ;  and  then  she  pictured  to  herself  the  sloping 
meadows  at  Copelands,  and  the  sunny  dingles,  Avhere  the  trees 
were  budding  fast,  and  where  big  clusters  of  primroses  lay 
hidden  nmong  the  moss  and  in  the  hollows  of  the  old  stumps ; 
and  she  longed  to  be  wandering  there,  and  thought  it  very  hard 
that  her  cousin  should  have  chosen  to  come  between  her  and 
so  much  pleasure.  '  It  was  provoking  of  him,  very  provok- 
ing,' she  said  to  herself;  ^she  wished  he  had  stayed  in  the 
Crimea  and  never  come  home  to  interfere  with  her ; '  and, 
with  her  angry  feelings  towards  him  not  much  diminished, 
she  left  her  room  and  went  off  in  search  of  some  amuse- 
ment. 

The  cold  which  Lisa  had  taken  proved  a  severe  one,  and 
hung  about  her  for  a  long  time.  For  two  or  three  days  she  was 
confined  to  her  own  room,  and  even  when  she  was  well  enough 
to  come  down-stairs  again,  she  w^as  kept  a  prisoner  to  the  house 
by  her  uncle's  advice.     A  most  refractory  patient  she  proved 

C 


34  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

herself,  always  running  about  the  cold  passages,  or  slipping 
into  the  garden  when  unobserved ;  and  how  she  scrambled 
into  health  again  was  a  perfect  marvel.  But  she  did,  and 
when,  one  fine  morning  in  April,  she  went  out  legitimately 
for  the  first  time,  she  was  almost  wild  with  delight,  racing  up 
and  down  the  green  walk  under  the  lime-trees  with  her 
skipping-rope,  while  old  Bar,  the  great  shaggy  house-dog, 
lounged  after  her  in  a  state  of  lazy  satisfaction.  She  danced, 
and  ran,  and  skipped,  until  she  appeared  to  have  tired  herself 
out,  and  then  she  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  lower  steps  of  a 
ladder  standing  against  the  garden  wall,  and  began  to  sing. 
Her  voice  was  low,  but  true  and  sweet,  and  as  she  sat  looking 
up  into  the  April  sky  of  clouds  and  blue  above  her  head, 
she  was  not  aware  of  the  pleasure  her  performance  was  giving 
to  some  one  else  besides  herself  and  Bar.  In  the  middle  of 
'  Auld  Eobin  Gray,'  she  became  aware  that  she  was  not  alone. 
With  his  back  against  a  tree  close  by,  stood  her  cousin  Percy, 
and  her  face  flushed  as  she  caught  sight  of  him.  She  sat  upright 
at  once,  with  a  look  half  shy,  half  defiant. 
^  I  am  not  disturbing  you,  am  I  ? '  he  asked. 

*  Not  in  the  least ;  you  have  as  good  a  right  to  be  here,  I 
suppose,  as  I  have.' 

*If  I  am  not  disturbing  you,  why  should  you  let  me  stop 
your  singing  1     You  were  giving  me  great  pleasure,  Lisa.' 

*  Was  1 1 '     Her  eye  danced,  though  she  looked  very  grave. 

*  You  are  tired,  I  suppose  ] ' 

*  No,  not  at  all — only  I  don't  care  to  go  on  now.'  The  air 
and  tone  were  too  unmistakably  childish  for  him  to  take  the 
rebuff  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  intended.  She  could  almost 
have  fancied,  indeed,  that  he  smiled. 

^  Do  you  never  care  to  amuse  your  friends  1 '  he  said,  quietly. 

*  Mt/  friejids — yes.  But  they  never  ask  me  to  sing ;  I  have 
never  learnt,  so  nobody  wants  to  hear  me.' 

^  Never  learned  !  Then  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  take  lessons. 
It  would  be  a  great  pity  not  to  cultivate  your  voice.' 

Lisa  pouted  a  little.  She  hated  anything  like  application, 
and  had  done  battle  with  every  master  and  mistress  in  turn 
before  a  fresh  accomplishment  had  been  forced  upon  her.  What 
business  of  Percy's  was  it  whether  she  learned  singing  or  not? 
Did  he  want  to  shut  her  up  in  the  house  all  day,  and  not  let 
her  enjoy  herself  at  all  in  the  sunshine  and  among  the  trees? 
The  mere  thought  of  such  a  thing  made  her  pout  again,  and 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.  35 

she  sat  and  eyed  Ler  cousin  with  suspicious  looks,  and  said  to 
herself  that  she  should  be  very  glad  if  he  were  in  the  trenches 
before  Sebastopol  again.  There  was  no  chance  of  his  return 
there,  however,  as  she  knew  well  enough.  Particulars  of  the 
treaty  that  had  been  signed  at  Paris  had  come  that  very  morn- 
ing ;  she  had  heard  nothing  else  talked  of  at  the  breakfast  tablc^ 
and  all  Atherstone  was  ringing  with  the  news  of  peace.  He 
would  not  go  away  now,  she  was  afraid,  and  she  was  very  sorry. 
Her  next  words  betrayed  what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  for, 
instead  of  replying  to  his  remark  about  her  singing,  she  said 
abruptly : 

^  I  don't  think  I  'm  very  glad  the  war  is  over.  I  don't  like 
people  to  meddle  with  me,  and — I  suppose  you  won't  go  back 
to  the  Crimea  at  all  now  1 ' 

'  I  believe  not.'  He  came  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  ladder,  which,  during  her  previous  meditations, 
she  had  gradually  been  mounting  backwards. 

*  What 's  that  for  ?  Why  are  you  holding  it  ? '  she  asked  in 
great  surprise.     '  It 's  quite  steady.' 

'  Not  very — I  think,  too,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  doing. 
Are  you  not  afraid  of  going  so  high  ? ' 

*  Afraid  1 '  She  read  his  face.  *  Why  don't  you  say  what 
you  mean — that  you  think  I  am  too  old  to  be  climbing  ladders 
— that  it  isn't  lady-like  to  do  such  things  1  But  I  don't  care. 
I  like  doing  them,  and  I  am  not  at  all  afraid,'  and  she  gave  such 
a  spring  upon  the  ladder,  that  he  felt  glad  he  was  there  to 
prevent  its  coming  down.  *  I  am  only  a  child  yet,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  anything  else.  I  like  to  run  about,  and  to  climb 
and  jump,  and  do  twenty  things  which  are  not  proper  for  young 
ladies.  And  I  can't  bear  sitting  in-doors  all  day  learning 
lessons,  which  never  do  any  good,  but  only  make  my  head  ache. 
That's  what  you  want  me  to  do,  I  know;  you  are  as  bad  as 
Aunt  Helen.  I  won't,  though.  I  shall  do  just  as  I  like  about 
everything,  and  never  ask  your  leave  for  anything.' 

With  which  assertion  she  turned  round  suddenly,  and  the 
next  moment,  to  his  utter  astonishment,  she  was  standing  on  the 
top  of  the  high  wall  which  separated  the  Priory  garden  from  the 
adjoining  churchyard.  It  was  not  a  safe  place,  even  for  a 
firm  foot  and  a  clear  head  like  hers,  for,  in  addition  to  its  great 
height  and  narrow  dimensions,  the  stones  in  some  places  had 
given  way  with  the  late  frosts ;  but  the  movement  was  so  unex- 
pected, that  Percy  had  no  time  to  prevent  it ;  he  could  only 


36  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

stand  and  expostulate.  She  evidently  enjoyed  liis  dismay,  and 
laughed  when  he  talked  of  danger,  and  the  risk  of  a  false  step  ; 
and  when  he  begged  her  to  come  down  she  laughed  still  more. 

*  As  if  I  could  fall  I  Why,  I  've  been  up  here  hundreds  of 
times.  There's  a  nice  little  seat  at  the  other  end  among  the 
trees,  and  I  come  and  sit  up  there  in  summer.  Fall,  indeed  ! 
I  wonder  how  I  could  ! '  and  she  executed  a  graceful  little  '  pas 
de  seul ! '  on  the  very  edge  of  the  wall,  finishing  off  with  a 
swimming  curtsey  to  him  ;  and  then  ran  to  coax  down  the 
white  cat,  whose  head  was  seen  peering  over  the  roof  of  the 
coach-house.  She  came  back  a  moment  or  two  afterwards  with 
her  favourite  in  her  arms,  and  fresh  persuasion  on  her  cousin's 
part  ensued  to  induce  her  to  come  down. 

*  No,  thank  you.  I  don't  like  being  with  you — you  tease  me. 
It's  much  pleasanter  up  here.  It  isn't  proper,  I  know.  It's 
very  mproper,  and  I  see  by  your  face  hoAv  very  unladylike  you 
think  me ;  but  I  don't  care.  If  you  don't  like  to  see  me  standing 
here  you  needn't  look  at  me — ^you  can  go  away.' 

She  walked,  or  rather  danced  off,  and  finding  it  useless  to 
argue  with  her,  he  left  her  to  herself,  and  walked  away.  But 
before  going  in-doors  he  went  to  the  stable,  to  ask  to  have  the 
ladder  taken  back  when  she  came  down,  and  kept  for  the  future 
under  the  gardener's  care. 

'  Not  that  it 's  the  least  manner  of  use  though,  sir,  for  me  to 
lock  it  up,'  said  old  Eichard.  *If  Miss  Lisa  wants  it,  she's 
sure  to  get  hold  of  it.  She  gets  everything  she  wants,  and  if 
she  can't  get  it  any  other  way,  she'll  watch  till  my  back  is 
turned^  and  then  steal  my  keys.  She 's  up  to  anything,  is  Miss 
Lisa,  and  I  can 't  scold  her,  she  comes  over  one  so  like.' 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Miss  Lisa  often  came  over  him  after- 
wards, for  the  ladder  was  frequently  to  be  seen  in  its  wrong 
place  ;  far  more  frequently  than  Percy  was  aware  of.  He, 
indeed,  in  his  unsuspicion,  most  probably  supposed  it  forgotten 
when  safely  housed  in  the  stable,  as  he  knew  very  little  of  the 
self-willed  waywardness  of  the  spirit  with  which  he  had  to  deal. 
Not  that  Lisa  took  any  pains  to  conceal  her  real  character  from 
him.  She  seemed  to  take  infinite  delight  in  showing  him  how 
wilful  and  capricious  she  could  be.  She  would  hardly  speak  to 
him  civilly  sometimes,  and  at  others  was  carelessly  provoking  and 
cool ;  and  as  if  to  see  how  far  she  could  go  without  stirring  up 
the  hot  temper  for  which  she  had  been  told  he  was  famous,  she 
ventured  upon  a  systematic  course  of  small  annoyances — hiding 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS.  37 

his  papers  and  books,  abstracting  his  penknives,  pocket  com- 
passes, mathematical  instruments,  or  anything  else  on  which  she 
could  lay  her  hands,  hacking  and  cutting  his  pens,  and  breaking 
his  pencil  points — doing  as  much  mischief,  in  short,  as  her 
ingenuity  could  devise,  and  then  sitting  by  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  while  he  repaired  damages  and  instituted  fruitless  hunts 
for  lost  treasures. 

Perhaj^s  he  did  not  guess  who  the  culprit  w^as,  or  perhaps 
politeness  would  not  allow  him  to  be  angry  with  a  lady;  for  as 
a  lady,  in  spite  of  her  indignant  disclaimers  to  such  a  title,  he 
persisted  in  treating  Lisa ;  and  although  she  said  to  herself  that 
she  was  sure  he  looked  very  black  at  the  outrages  perpetrated, 
she  never  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  quite  certain  that  she 
had  really  roused  the  fiery  spirit  of  which  she  had  heard  so 
much. 

There  was  one  way,  however,  in  which  she  found  that  she 
could  annoy  him  most  seriously.  He  had  very  high  ideas  of 
what  a  woman  ought  to  be,  and  nothing  shocked  him  more 
than  any  approach  to  '  fast '  or  unfeminine  conduct  in  a  girl ; 
and  Lisa,  w^ho  had  read  his  looks  rightly  on  the  day  she  mounted 
the  garden  wall,  saw  his  disapprobation  afterwards  of  many 
things  that  she  did.  She  was  very  angry,  and  to  revenge  herself, 
and  for  the  pleasure  of  vexing  him,  she  took  care  always  to 
make  the  most  of  all  her  exploits ;  talked  of  swinging  on  five- 
barred  gates  at  the  farm,  of  mounting  hay-ricks,  and  jumping 
hurdles  with  Fred  and  Charley ;  while  she  Avould  never  even  let 
him  guess  bow  much  she  liked  some  other  things  of  a  less  ques- 
tionable character,  because  she  had  heard  him  mention  them  as 
]Droper  tastes  for  a  woman. 

One  of  these  was  drawing,  for  in  spite  of  its  quiet  nature,  it 
so  happened  that  this  was  a  thing  for  which  she  had  a  particular 
fancy  ;  but  so  resolved  was  she  that  he  should  not  guess  her 
predilection  for  anything  of  the  sort,  that  though  longing  to 
look  at  the  many  sketches  he  had  made  when  abroad,  she  would 
never  ask  him  to  let  her  see  them.  Mary,  who  w^as  one  day 
turning  over  his  Crimean  drawings,  and  questioning  him  about 
them,  perceived  her  hovering  near,  and  made  room  for  her  to 
come  and  look  too. 

'  You  will  like  to  see  them,  Lisa.  Here  are  views  of  so  many 
of  the  places  we  have  heard  of  lately.' 

But  no.  Although  there  was  nothing  Lisa  would  have  liked 
better — for  she  had  been  listening  with  the  deepest  interest  to  all 


38  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

that  Percy  was  saying,  yet  she  chose  to  appear  indifferent.  She 
drew  back  hastily,  and  put  her  hands  behind  her,  as  if  something 
were  about  to  be  forced  on  her  that  she  did  not  like. 

*  No,  thank  you.  I  don't  care  for  them.  They  are  very  good, 
I  daresay,  but  I  don't  want  to  see  them.  I  've  something  else  to 
do.'  And  she  marched  away,  half  sorry  that  her  pride  would 
not  let  her  have  such  a  pleasure,  and  yet  half  proud,  too,  of  this 
self-same  pride,  which  was  unfortunately  fated  to  bring  her  into 
collision  with  her  cousin  in  a  way  which  might  have  been 
attended  with  most  disastrous  consequences. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  WILFUL   SPRITE. 


One  afternoon,  some  little  time  after,  Percy  happened  to  go  over 
to  Copelands  on  business  for  his  father,  and  stayed  when  he  had 
finished  it  to  walk  round  the  farm  with  Mr  Pye.  He  was  not 
aware  that  any  of  the  party  from  the  Priory  were  there,  and  was 
rather  surprised  in  a  distant  meadow  to  come  upon  Lane  with 
the  two  younger  girls  and  Georgie,  all  harmlessly  engaged  in 
gathering  cowslips.  Not  Lisa,  however ;  she  was  not  with  them, 
nor  did  he  see  her  anywhere  near. 

^  Oh,  Lisa  is  riding/  remarked  Constance,  in  answer  to  his 
inquiries.  '  Here  she  is  coming  across  the  field.'  And  in  fact 
at  that  moment  up  cantered  Lisa,  mounted  without  saddle  on 
Mr  Pye's  fine  hunter.  There  was  no  such  thing  in  the  house 
as  a  lady's  saddle,  but  that  was  nothing  to  her — she  could  ride 
as  well,  or  better,  without  one ;  and  fearless  and  high-spirited  by 
nature,  she  delighted  in  a  gallop  on  a  horse  as  spirited  as  herself, 
and  laughed  at  the  idea  of  danger. 

Mr  Pye  shook  his  head  as  she  came  up. 

*  Ah,  Miss  Lisa,  at  it  again  !  And  you  know  it 's  not  right. 
I  Ve  told  you  over  and  over  again  that  horse  is  too  much  for  you. 
You  '11  have  an  accident  some  day,  and  then  you  '11  be  sorry  you  've 
not  taken  my  advice  and  kept  off  his  back.' 

*  So  you  say  every  time  I  ride  him,'  said  Lisa,  gaily.  *  The 
first  day  I  got  on  you  told  me  I  should  break  my  neck,  but  here 
I  am  in  spite  of  all  your  prophecies.  No,  thank  you,'  backing 
a  little  as  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  dismount,  '  I  haven't  had 
my  ride.     I  don't  mean  to  get  down.'     And  with  a  glance  at 


A  WILFUL  SPRITE.  S9 

Percy,  who  seemed  on  the  pomt  of  saying  something,  she  gave 
the  rein  to  her  horse  and  cantered  off  again. 

Mr  Pye  looked  a  little  put  out.  *  That 's  the  way  with  her, 
sir,'  he  said,  turning  to  Percy.  *  She 's  wilful-like,  and  will  do 
as  she  pleases.  Say  what  I  will,  I  can't  keep  her  off  that  horse, 
and  it 's  not  safe  for  her  to  be  riding  of  him  as  she  does.  Her 
hand  is  not  strong  enough  ;  and  he  has  a  bad  trick  of  shying  at 
times.  I'm  thinking  of  getting  rid  of  him  if  I  could  find  any  one 
to  give  me  my  price — but  that 's  a  chance.  I  don't  like  to  see 
Miss  Lisa  on  him,  but  I  can't  stop  her.  Perhaps,  sir,  if  you  spoke 
to  her  she  'd  mind  you,  for  if  she 's  not  stopped  we  shall  have 
an  accident  sure  enough.' 

Percy's  brow  knitted.  ^  I  will  speak  to  her,'  he  said,  as,  with 
his  glass  up  to  his  eye,  he  followed  Lisa's  movements  at  the  other 
end  of  the  meadow.     *  She  shall  not  do  it  again.' 

He  walked  back  to  the  house  with  the  farmer,  and  waited  until 
Lisa,  who  in  the  meantime  kept  carefully  out  of  reach,  had  finished 
her  ride,  and  chose  to  come  back.  She  rode  into  the  yard  at  a 
very  leisurely  pace,  and  looked  at  Mr  Pye  with  a  bright  smile 
while  she  stroked  and  patted  the  horse's  neck,  and  then  she  slipped 
down  without  taking  any  notice  of  her  cousin  who  was  coming  up 
to  offer  his  assistance.  He  examined  the  horse  for  a  few  moments 
in  silence,  and  afterwards  followed  her  as  she  was  going  into  the 
house.  He  looked  very  grave,  and  probably  she  had  her  sus- 
picions as  to  v/hat  was  coming,  for  she  kept  as  far  away  from 
him  as  possible  while  they  walked  up  the  garden,  and  appeared 
to  be  quite  taken  up  with  admiring  the  jonquils  and  anemones 
with  which  the  borders  were  crowded. 

*  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  give  up  your  rides,  Lisa,'  he 
said  at  last.  *  That  horse  is  not  meant  for  a  lady,  and  it  is  not  safe 
for  you  to  be  riding  him.     I  hope  you  will  not  attempt  it  again.' 

Lisa  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little  pettishly. 

*  Thank  you,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid.  And  I  am  quite  able  to 
take  care  of  myself,  Captain  Tennent,  without  troubling  you  to 
look  after  me — much  obliged  to  you  all  the  same/  she  added, 
ironically. 

Percy  bit  his  lip.  *  If  you  are  not  afraid,  Lisa,  others  must 
be  for  you ;  and  for  their  sakes  I  must  beg  you  to  give  up  an 
amusement  which  is  not  safe.  My  father  would  not  approve  of 
these  rides,  I  am  sure,  if  he  knew  of  them;  nor  would  Mrs 
Tennent.' 

Lisa  laughed  rather  disdainfully.     *  I  am  sorry  you  should  be 


40  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

disappointed,  but  I  don't  feel  at  all  inclined  to  give  them  up. 
If  they  don't  meet  with  your  approval,  it  is  a  pity,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  You  must  not  expect  me  to  consult  your  wishes  in 
everything/ 

*  Not  my  wishes,  but  what  is  safe  and  proper.  Your  own  good 
sense,  Lisa,  must  tell  you  that  you  ought  to  give  them  up  when 
you  know  they  are  not  safe.' 

'  My  own  good  sense  tells  me  that  you  are  extremely  fond  of 
interfering  with  me,  Captain  Tennent ;  and  really  I  don't  know 
who  gave  you  the  right  to  do  it,  or  what  concern  it  is  of  yours 
whether  I  chose  to  ride  or  not.  Even  if  I  like  to  break  my 
neck,  it  will  be  no  business  of  yours.  When  I  want  your  advice 
I  will  ask  for  it ;  but  until  I  do,  perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough 
not  to  interfere.' 

Percy  looked  grave.  *  I  have  no  wish  to  interfere  with  you  iu 
general,'  he  said,  '  and  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  do  so  now. 
If  you  consider,  though  it  is  no  business  of  mine,  you  can  ask  my 
father  what  he  thinks  about  it ;  he  has  certainly  a  right  to  keep 
you  out  of  danger,  even  if  I  have  none.' 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  Lisa  only  raised  her  head  a 
little,  and  walked  on  ;  and  w^hen  they  left  the  farm,  she  chose  to 
loiter  behind  with  Lane  and  Georgie,  and  let  Susan  and  Con- 
stance get  on  as  quickly  as  they  liked  with  their  brother.  At 
the  hall  door,  how^ever,  she  found  him  again  waiting  for  her. 

*  You  were  not  serious  in  what  you  said  just  now,  Lisa  1  You 
will  give  them  up  ? '  he  said,  as  she  was  passing  him. 

'  Give  what  up  1 '  she  asked,  carelessly,  and  beginning  to  untie 
her  bonnet-strings  with  a  most  provoking  air  of  indifference. 
*  Oh,  my  rides,  do  you  mean  ?  How  you  do  go  on  about  them, 
to  be  sure !  I  thought  we  had  done  once,  and  now  you  are 
beginning  again.  Of  course  I  don't  intend  to  give  them  up  ;  I 
told  you  so  before.' 

'  And  I  am  to  speak  to  my  father,  then  ? ' 

*  If  you  please.  I  don't  care  in  the  least  what  you  do.  Pray 
interfere  as  much  as  you  like,  if  it  w^ill  give  you  any  pleasure.' 

A  queen  could  not  have  looked  more  dignified  than  did  that 
little  wilful  beauty;  and  so  pretty  w^as  she  in  her  wilfulness,  that, 
in  spite  of  his  annoyance,  Percy's  eye  lingered  on  her  admiringly. 
But  he  said  no  more,  and  with  a  proud  step,  and  a  curious  smile 
on  her  face,  she  glided  past  him  and  disappeared  up  the  staircase. 

Lisa  was  surprised  and  anything  but  pleased  to  be  told  by  her 
uncle  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  that  she  must  have  nothing 


A  WILFUL  SPRITE.  41 

more  to  do  with  Mr  Pye's  horse ;  her  rides  must  cease  from  that 
day  forth.  He  spoke  decidedly,  and  Mrs  Tennent  repeated  the 
command,  adding  a  good  deal  more,  to  which  Lisa  paid  no 
attention.  She  was  too  angry  to  listen ;  and  although  she  said 
nothing,  the  look  of  defiance  which  she  cast  across  the  table  at 
Percy  spoke  volumes.  '  Did  he  think  he  was  going  to  order 
her  about,  that  he  had  only  to  give  his  commands  and  they  were 
to  be  obeyed.  But  he  was  mistaken,  and  so  he  would  find  before 
long  ! '  She  dashed  away  the  moment  breakfast  was  over,  and 
flew  to  Mary's  room,  where,  happening  to  see  some  of  Percy's 
drawings  which  had  unfortunately  been  left  there,  lihe  rushed  on 
them  in  her  childish  rage,  and,  tearing  them  all  into  fragments, 
tossed  them  out  of  the  window.  She  cooled  down  a  little  as  she 
watched  the  last  of  them  caught  away  by  the  wind  and  carried 
over  the  garden  wall ;  for  she  began  to  wonder  whether  she  had 
not  gone  a  little  too  far,  and  whether  they  were  any  that  he  cared 
about  particularly.  Whatever  they  had  been,  however,  there  was 
an  end  of  them  now  ;  and  drawing  a  chair  to  the  table,  she  began 
to  scribble  an  exercise  for  Madame  as  the  commencement  of  her 
morning  studies. 

Two  days  after  that,  Percy  was  once  more  at  Copelands,  and, 
not  finding  Mr  Pye  near  the  house,  set  off  across  some  meadows 
in  search  of  him.  He  was  standing  under  some  trees  on  the 
banks  of  a  stream,  looking  round  with  his  glass  to  see  if  the 
farmer  were  near,  when  the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  coming  rapidly 
up  on  the  turf  on  the  opposite  side  made  him  turn.  It  was  not 
without  a  misgiving  that  he  did  so,  and  his  first  glance  told  him 
that  his  suspicions  were  correct.  It  was  no  other  than  Lisa  who 
was  there,  and  who,  without  seeing  him,  cantered  up  and  down 
for  some  minutes  on  the  higb  bank  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook. 
Percy's  brow  clouded  as  he  watched  her  ;  and  when,  still  unaware 
of  his  presence,  she  suddenly  put  her  horse  to  a  gallop,  and 
cleared  the  stream  close  to  the  place  where  he  stood,  he  walked 
forward  with  an  air  of  cool  and  resolute  determination,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  bridle.  His  unlooked-for  appearance  took  her 
by  surprise,  and  her  colour  rose  for  a  moment.  She  speedily 
recovered  herself,  however. 

*  Good  morning.  Captain  Tennent,'  she  said  with  a  smile,  *  I 
didn't  expect  to  see  you  here.  Did  you  come  to  prevent  my 
ride?  Because  if  so,  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  are  too  late.  I 
have  been  out  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  have  enjoyed  myself 
exceedingly.' 


42  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  You  are  mistaken,  Lisa  ;  my  coming  had  nothing  to  do  with 
you.  After  what  my  father  said  the  other  day,  I  did  not  think 
my  interference  would  have  been  necessary  again.  I  thought 
his  wishes  would  have  been  quite  enough,  without ' 

*  His  wishes  ;  yours,  you  mean,'  retorted  Lisa,  scornfully,  '  I 
should  have  had  my  rides  in  peace  \  I  should  have  heard  nothing 
from  him,  if  you  had  not  interfered.  And  very  kind  it  was  of 
you,  I  must  say.  Let  me  go,  if  you  please,'  with  a  little  im- 
patient flourish  of  her  whip.  ^You  needn't  stand  with  your 
hand  there,  for  I  mean  to  have  my  ride  out. ' 

*  Lisa,  this  is  trifling — mere  childishness.  You  must  get 
down.'     Her  eyes  began  to  flash. 

'  Must  I  How  dare  you  say  "  must "  to  me  %  Do  you  think 
I  am  going  to  obey  you  f 

'  Not  me — but  my  father.  He  wishes  it,  Lisa ;  he  has  for- 
bidden these  rides,  and  you  ought  to  give  them  up.' 

Her  colour  rose.  *  Ought  I  Yes,  because  you  wish  it.  Don't 
talk  of  my  uncle's  wishes;  he  had  none  till  you  interfered. 
You  must  find  some  one  else,  Captain  Tennent,  to  listen  to 
your  "musts"  and  your  "oughts,"  for  I  won't.  And  now  let 
me  go.'  She  jerked  at  her  bridle  as  she  spoke,  but  his  hand 
was  firm  upon  it,  and  the  only  effect  of  the  movement  was 
to  make  her  horse  start  and  attempt  to  rear. 

*  It  won't  do,  Lisa — you  must  get  down.' 

*  You  can't  keep  me  if  I  don't  wish  to  stay,'  she  exclaimed, 
growing  still  more  excited.  *  Let  me  go  directly.'  And  caring 
little  what  she  did  to  free  herself,  she  raised  her  whip,  and  with 
all  her  force  struck  him  so  sharply  across  his  ungloved  hand 
that  he  was  taken  by  surprise  and  let  the  bridle  fall.  It  was 
only  for  a  moment,  and  the  next  he  attempted  to  catch  it  again, 
but  he  missed,  and  Lisa's  ringing  laugh  was  one  of  triumph  at 
his  failure. 

'Ah,  Captain  Tennent,  "it  won't  do,'"  she  said,  repeating  his 
words  mockingly,  *  you  will  have  to  go  back  alone,  and  I  hope 
you  11  enjoy  the  walk.     Good-bye.'     And  she  rode  off. 

But  alas  for  poor  Lisa  1  Her  triumph  was  of  short  duration. 
Her  laugh  was  still  sounding  in  his  ear,  and  her  eyes  were  still 
dancing  with  glee  at  his  discomfiture,  when  the  report  of  a  gun 
in  a  neighbouring  wood  startled  her  horse  and  made  him  shy 
suddenly.  Hiding  carelessly  as  she  was,  it  was  a  movement  for 
which  she  was  totally  unprepared,  and  losing  her  balance  she 
was  flung  to  the  ground,  and  lay  there  stunned  and  motionless. 


A  WILFUL  SPIiiTE.  43 

It  was  not  for  many  minutes  j  Percy,  who  had  seen  the  acci- 
dent, had  hardly  time  to  reach  the  spot  where  she  was  lying, 
before  her  senses  began  to  return,  and  although  confused  at  first, 
she  raised  herself  a  little,  and  sat  up.  The  sight  of  her  cousin 
seemed  to  recal  her  to  herself,  for  the  colour  came  back  to 
her  face,  and  she  turned  away  with  an  expression  of  evident 
annoyance. 

'  I  am  not  hurt,'  she  said,  coldly.  *  You  needn't  look  so 
frightened.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.'  But  the 
bewildered  way  in  which  she  raised  her  hand  to  her  head  as 
she  spoke,  rather  contradicted  her  assertion. 

'  I  don't  think  you  know  yet  whether  you  are  hurt  or  not,^ 
Percy  answered,  gravely,  but  with  a  kindness  that  would  have 
touched  her,  had  she  not  been  too  much  confused  to  notice  it. 
'  At  any  rate,  you  must  not  lie  here  :  you  must  let  me  carry  you 
back  to  the  house,  and  then  we  shall  find  out  what  you  have 
done.     I  hope,  as  you  say,  it  is  nothing.'' 

'  Thank  you,  I  hope  so  too,'  said  Lisa,  not  too  much  subdued 
even  then  to  be  ironical.  '  As  for  being  carried,  though,  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  prefer  walking.  I  can  do  that  quite 
as  well  as,  if  not  better,  than  yourself. '  And  she  smiled  a  little, 
for  her  cousin's  habit  of  using  a  stick  when  he  first  came  home 
had  been  a  constant  source  of  amusement  to  her,  and  even  now 
he  walked  stiffly.  He  made  no  answer,  and  would  have  helped 
her  to  rise,  but  she  pushed  away  his  offered  hand,  and  appeared 
quite  offended  at  the  idea  of  his  supposing  that  she  wanted 
any  assistance.  When  she  raised  herself,  however,  with  some 
difficulty,  and  tried  to  set  her  foot  to  the  ground,  the  involun- 
tary shudder  and  exclamation  of  pain  that  escaped  her  told 
where  she  was  hurt  j  and  if  Percy  had  not  caught  her,  she 
would  have  fallen  again.  He  saw  she  was  nearly  fainting  ;  and 
lifting  her  in  his  arms  as  he  would  have  lifted  a  little  child,  he 
carried  her  back  to  the  farm.  She  was  not  much  more  than  a 
child,  indeed,  and  very  light ;  and  he  had  carried  her  into  the 
house,  and  laid  her  on  the  large  old-fashioned  sofa  in  Mrs  Pye's 
kitchen,  before  she  knew  what  was  being  done  with  her;  and 
then  he  took  off  her  hat  and  fetched  her  some  water,  which 
brought  the  colour  back  to  her  face  and  did  her  good ;  though 
the  pain  from  her  foot  was  growing  worse,  and  she  felt  dizzy 
and  bewildered.  And  then  Mrs  Pye  herself  came  bustling  in, 
all  alarm  at  the  accident,  and  suggesting  remedies  of  every  sort ; 
the  worst  of  which,  in  Lisa's  opinion,  she  insisted  upon  ad- 


44  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

ministering  at  once,  namely,  a  large  bottle  of  smelling  salts — 
tlie  very  best  thing,  as  she  declared,  for  faintness.  Lisa  writhed 
at  first  under  the  infliction,  and  ended  by  pushing  the  bottle 
away  in  desperation  ;  and  then  she  implored  to  have  her  boot 
taken  off — a  work  of  difficulty,  for  her  foot  was  swelling  very 
fast,  and  she  could  hardly  bear  to  have  it  touclied.  Mrs  Pye 
was  so  afraid  of  giving  pain  that,  in  her  very  anxiety  to  avoid 
doing  so,  she  gave  far  more  than  was  necessary ;  but  Percy  came 
to  the  rescue,  and  in  spite  of  Lisa's  remonstrances,  slit  her  boot 
open  down  the  front  with  his  pen-knife,  and  drew  it  off  without 
more  ado.  The  relief  to  her  foot  from  the  removal  of  the  pres- 
sure was  very  great,  but  with  the  momentary  cessation  from  pain 
came  thoughts  of  what  she  would  have  to  bear  from  her  aunt's 
anger,  when  the  accident  was  known  at  home.  She  threw  herself 
back  with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  drew  her  foot  away  when  her 
cousin  would  have  liked  to  ascertain  more  particularly  the  extent 
of  the  injury,  that  something  might  be  done  to  lessen  the  pain. 

*  Oh,  no,  leave  me  alone ;  don't  touch  me,*  she  exclaimed, 
pettishly.  *  You  hurt  me  and  can  do  no  good.  You  have  done 
all  you  can  and  now  you  may  go,  and  be  quite  happy  that 
everything  has  happened  as  you  said  it  would.  It  Avould  have 
been  a  great  pity  if  all  your  wise  prophecies  hadn't  come  to  pass. 
And  of  course  you  are  glad  they  have,  if  only  to  show  how  wise 
you  are  and  how  foolish  I  am.  Ah,  well,  you  may  be  as  glad  as 
you  like  ;  I  shan't  care,'  she  added,  with  fierce  impatience,  jerk- 
ing herself  backwards  among  the  pillows  which  Mrs  Pye  had 
heaped  up  behind  her. 

*  You  are  mistaken,  Lisa ;  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,'  was  all  he 
said ;  and  angry  as  she  was,  she  was  softened  by  the  tone  in 
which  those  few  words  were  spoken.  He  turned  away,  and 
writing  a  few  lines  in  pencil  on  a  slip  of  paper,  asked  to  have 
them  taken  to  the  Priory,  and  then  made  inquiries  for  Lane, 
who  was  somewhere  about  the  farm.  Mrs  Pye  went  out  in  search 
of  her,  and,  left  alone  with  her  cousin,  Lisa  felt  no  inclination  to 
break  the  pause  which  followed.  She  was  beginning  to  see  that 
she  had  behaved  very  badly ;  and,  between  pain  and  self-reproach, 
she  found  it  a  hard  matter  to  keep  back  her  tears.  She  wished 
Percy  would  have  found  fault  with  her,  that  he  would  have  said 
— no  matter  what,  so  that  she  could  have  had  a  pretext  for 
being  angry.  Her  spirit:  would  have  kept  her  up  then ;  but  to 
meet  with  pity  when  she  deserved  blame,  and  kindness  instead 
of  upbraiding,  was  what  she  had  not  expected,  and  she  began  to 


A  WILFUL  SPRITE.  45 

feel  very  miserable,  and  very  penitent.  She  lay  back  with  lier 
eyes  closed,  and  there  was  a  long  silence,  until  she  happened  to 
look  up  and  found  Percy  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  watch- 
ing her  so  earnestly  that  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  where  he 
was.  He  started  as  his  eye  met  hers,  and,  as  she  turned  her 
head  away  with  a  very  weary  sigh,  he  came  up  to  her  side  and 
asked  if  there  were  nothing  he  could  do  for  her. 

*  'No,  nothing,  thank  you ;  but  I  should  like — oh,  I  should 
like  to  go  home.     Uncle  Henry  would  do  something  for  this 

pain,  I  think,  and ' Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  had  to  bite 

her  lip  and  clench  her  hands  tightly  to  keep  back  the  cry  which 
was  almost  wrung  from  her.  '  When  do  you  think  I  may  go  ? ' 
she  said,  after  a  pause.  '  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  this  much 
longer.' 

Percy  took  a  turn  across  the  room  before  he  answered  :  *  My 
father  will  be  here  in  a  short  time,  I  expect — if  he  were  at  home, 
that  is,  when  they  got  my  note.  If  not,  they  will  send  the  car- 
riage for  you.     They  are  sure  to  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.' 

Lisa's  look  was  a  very  grateful  one.  '  Thank  j'ou,  I  don't 
mind  it  so  much  now.  I  didn't  know  before  what  you  had  done.' 
And  she  closed  her  eyes  again  and  lay  very  patiently  till  Lane 
made  her  appearance,  out  of  breath,  and  in  an  excited  state  at 
the  account  she  had  received  from  Mrs  Pye  of  the  accident. 
Lisa  was  her  favourite,  her  peculiar  pet  among  all  her  charges  at 
the  Priory ;  not  even  Georgie,  whom  she  petted  and  spoiled  to 
an  unlimited  extent,  as  old  nurses  only  know  how  to  do,  not 
even  he  was  half  so  much  to  her  as  was  Lisa — Lisa  who  tor- 
mented her,  and  tyrannised  over  her,  and  gave  her  no  end  of 
trouble,  and  who  was  all  the  dearer  to  her,  perhaps,  on  that  very 
account.  She  came  in  now  in  a  sad  state,  too  much  frightened 
even  to  give  the  scolding  with  which,  in  spite  of  her  fondness, 
she  would  have  greeted  her  darling  at  any  other  time;  nor  did 
Lisa's  pale  face  and  evident  suffering  tend  to  reassure  her,  but  as 
nothing  could  be  done,  she  could  only  stand  by  and  commise- 
rate, until  at  last,  to  the  relief  of  everybody,  the  carriage  arrived. 
It  was  a  disappointment  that  Dr  Tennent  did  not  come  with  it, 
but  he  was  not  at  home,  so  the  only  thing  was  to  get  Lisa  back 
as  fast  as  possible.  Percy  accordingly  carried  her  out,  and  having 
placed  her  in  the  carriage,  and  put  Lane  and  Georgie  in  after 
her,  he  sent  them  off,  promising  to  bring  home  the  two  little 
girls  himself. 


46  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

ON   THE    SOFA. 

Lisa's  hurt  proved  to  be  tlie  fracture  of  some  of  the  small  bones 
of  the  foot,  besides  several  very  bad  contusions — rather  a  serious 
accident,  her  uncle  seemed  to  think,  though  the  wonder  was,  be 
said,  that  it  was  not  much  worse.  She  must  make  up  her  mind 
to  be  a  prisoner  for  some  time,  or  she  might  lame  herself  for  life. 
Lisa  had  borne  the  pain  of  having  the  bones  set,  and  the  suffer- 
ing that  had  gone  before,  without  a  tear,  and  almost  without  a 
word  ;  but  when  she  heard  that  it  would  be  very  long  before 
she  could  run  or  walk  again,  she  felt  she  was  really  punished, 
and  cried  very  bitterly.  But  she  kept  her  tears  to  herself,  and 
did  not  let  any  one  see  them ;  and  when  Percy  went  up  into 
Mary's  room  that  evening,  to  ask  how  she  was,  she  had  resumed 
her  old  defiant  manner,  and  gave  very  short  answers  to  his 
inquiries. 

'  Her  foot  did  not  pain  her  nearly  so  much  now — it  was 
much  better ;  but  her  head  ached,  and  she  was  tired,'  and  she 
evidently  meant  this  as  a  hint  that  his  presence  was  not  desired. 
He  said  no  more,  and  left  the  room  almost  immediately,  and  she 
did  not  see  him  again  until  the  following  afternoon,  when  he 
happened  to  come  in  while  Mary  was  sitting  -with  her.  She  was 
vexed  at  the  interruption,  and  still  more  so  when,  instead  of 
going  again,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  he  chose  to  stay  and  look 
for  something  that  he  wanted.  After  poking  about  for  some 
minutes  in  his  blind  way,  he  turned  to  Mary  and  asked  if  she 
had  done  anything  with  some  drawings  that  they  had  been  look- 
ing at  a  few  days  before. 

'  I  must  have  left  them  here,  for  I  can't  find  them  in  my  port- 
folio,' he  said.     *  Have  you  seen  them  anywhere  V 

Mary  shook  her  head.  *  Which  do  you  mean  ?  Not  Captain 
Carleton'sr 

*  Yes ;  those  two  of  his  and  one  of  my  own.  I  don't  care  for 
mine,  it 's  of  no  consequence,  but  I  wouldn't  have  his  lost  for 
anything.     I  don't  think  I  have  another.' 

*  Oh,  they  are  not  lost/  said  Mary,  getting  up  ;  *  I  shall  soon 
find  them.  My  eyes  are  better  than  yours,  you  know.'  And  she 
began  a  search  in  various  places,  while  Lisa  watched  her  move- 
ments in   blank  consternation.     Until  that  moment  she  had 


ON  THE  SOFA.  47 

quite  forgotten  what  she  had  done  in  her  fit  of  passion  a  few 
mornings  before.  Like  everything  else,  it  had  passed  out  of  her 
head  directly  her  anger  was  over,  and  she  had  never  given  it 
another  thought,  until  her  cousin's  present  inquiry  recalled  it  to 
her  mind.  She  could  not  now  let  the  search  go  on,  so  she  broke 
out  in  desperation  :  *  It 's  no  use  looking  for  them,  Mary,  you 
won't  find  them.  They  are  gone.  I  tore  them  up  the  other 
day.'  Her  face  grew  crimson,  and  she  did  not  dare  look  at 
Percy  as  she  made  this  announcement. 

*  Tore  them  up  !  My  dear  Lisa,  you  surely  didn't  do  such  a 
thing  ? '  exclaimed  Mary,  in  accents  of  dismay ;  while  Mrs  Ten- 
nent — who  had  just  come  into  the  room — asked  what  they  were 
talking  about. 

^  Some  drawings  of  Percy's,'  said  Mary.  ^  But,  Lisa,  you  must 
be  mistaken.  You  never  could  have  torn  them  up — you  must 
have  seen  what  they  were.' 

*  I  know  I  did.     But  I  was  angry ;  I  did  it  on  purpose.' 

*  Did  it  on  purpose  !  O  Lisa  ! '  And  Mary's  tone  had  as 
much  of  reproach  in  it  as  perhaps  it  ever  could  have.  But  Percy 
was  silent,  though  if  Lisa  had  seen  his  face,  she  would  have  been 
even  more  sorry  than  she  was.  He  turned  away  and  walked  to 
the  window. 

If  he  were  silent,  however,  not  so  Mrs  Tennent,  when  she 
understood  what  had  happened.  She  overwhelmed  her  niece 
with  reproaches  which  had  the  effect  of  reducing  her  into  a  care- 
for-nothing,  impenetrable  mood,  when  she  might  have  been  talked 
at  the  whole  day  without  having  the  least  impression  made  upon 
her,  and  when  all  her  better  feelings  were  fast  vanishing  under 
the  influence  of  harsh  words.  At  this  juncture  Percy  turned 
back  from  the  window. 

^  Will  you  oblige  me,  Mrs  Tennent,  by  saying  no  more  about 
it  1  It  can't  be  helped,  and  Lisa  had  no  idea,  I  am  sure,  of  what 
she  was  doing.  She  could  not  tell  that  they  were  of  any  parti- 
cular value  to  me.' 

Lisa  looked  up  at  this  speech.  'I  did  know  what  I  was 
doing,'  she  said,  very  decidedly ;  *  I  didn't  know  you  cared  about 
them  in  particular,  but  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  well  enough. 
I  did  it  to  vex  you  because  you  had  made  me  angry.' 

Mrs  Tennent  stood  aghast  at  this  announcement. 

^  Really,  Lisa,  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  to  be  done  with 
you,'  she  said,  when  she  had  in  some  measure  recovered  from  her 
astonishment.     *  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  totally  devoid  of 


48  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

principle.     It  is  bad  enough  to  act  with  wilful  disobedience,  but 

when  it  comes  to  malice  too,  it  is  carrying  things  too  far ' 

She  was  stopped  by  Perc}'. 

'  If  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  say  nothing  more  about  it, 
you  would  oblige  me  very  much.  The  loss  is  mine,  and  the  best 
way  will  be  to  forget  it  as  soon  as  I  can.' 

He  left  the  room,  and  Mrs  Tennent  went  away  also  without 
further  remark,  though  her  looks  said  volumes.  But  Lisa  did 
not  see  them  ;  she  was  doing  her  best  to  appear  totally  uncon- 
cerned and  indifferent.  She  could  hold  out  no  longer,  however, 
when,  after  a  time,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  found  Mary  watching 
her  pityingly  and  almost  sadly. 

*  O  Mary  !  you  will  hate  me,'  she  exclaimed  then ;  *  I  am  as 
bad  as  bad  can  be,  and  I  shall  never  be  any  better.  You  may  as 
w^ell  give  me  up  and  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  I  Ve 
been  dreadfully  wicked,  and  what 's  the  use  of  being  sorry  now, 
it  won't  undo  it  all,  though  I  'm  sure  I  wish  it  could.  You  don't 
believe  me,  perhaps — but  it 's  true  for  all  that.' 

*  Yes,  I  know  it  is,'  said  Mary,  who  understood  how  it  had 
happened — '  I  know  it  is,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.'  And  at 
these  words  all  Lisa's  sorrow  broke  forth  in  a  torrent  of  tears  and 
self-reproaches.  She  would  not  have  cared  so  much,  she  said,  if 
it  were  only  her  wilfulness  about  her  rides  that  she  had  to  be 
sorry  for,  because  she  was  punished  for  that  in  being  obliged  to 
lie  there  so  long.  '  It  is  very  hard,  Mary,  to  have  to  do  that — 
look  at  the  sunshine  on  the  lawn  now,  and  on  the  lime  trees  in 
the  green  walk ;  and  look  at  Bar  there  sitting  on  the  gravel  path, 
snapping  at  the  flies  as  they  come  about  him :  I  should  like  to 
be  having  a  race  with  him  instead  of  lying  here.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  it  all  the  morning ;  but  I  thought,  too,  that  the  only 
way  I  could  show  I  was  sorry  for  having  been  so  bad,  was  by  being 
patient  and  not  feeling  cross  for  what  serves  me  right.  It  would 
make  up  a  little  for  having  done  what  I  ought  not ;  but  I  can't 
make  up  for  having  been  so  angry  and  tearing  up  those  things. 
I  am  afraid  Percy  cares  for  them  very  much.  Somebody  had 
given  them  to  him,  I  suppose  1 ' 

'  Yes,  a  friend  of  his  who  died  in  India  two  or  three  years 
ago.' 

'  Died  !  Is  he  dead  ? '  and  Lisa  looked  shocked.  '  Was  he  a 
very  particular  friend  though,  or  only ' 

*  A  common  one,'  suggested  Mary ;  *  no,  I  don't  think  Percy 
lias  any  friends  of  that  kind,  or  if  he  has,  he  don't  call  them 


ON  THE  SOFA.  49 

friends,  they  are  only  acquaintances.  But  this  one  was  ciiffeiGni;, 
they  were  like  brothers,  I  believe.  Not  always,'  she  added,  as  it 
recalling  something  to  mind,  *  but  latterly.  Percy  was  terribly 
cut  up  when  he  died.' 

Lisa  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  ^  He  will  never  forgive  me/ 
she  said  at  last. 

Mary  smiled.  *  You  had  better  ask  him  ;  he  is  not  unforgiv- 
ing in  general.' 

^  No,  but  such  a  thing  as  this.  I  wish,  Mary,  you  could  tel'i 
him  how  sorry  I  am,  and  that  I  really  didn't  know  he  had  any 
particular  reason  for  caring  about  those  drawings.  I  wouldn't 
have  torn  them  up  if  I  had  known  it ; — even  though  I  was  so 
angry  with  him.  I  am  very  sorry  ;  I  am  indeed.  Won't  you 
tell  him  so  T 

^  Yes,  if  you  like,  I  will.'  And  Mary  most  probably  told  her 
brother  not  only  that,  but  a  good  deal  more  which  Lisa  never 
guessed.     The  next  time  she  saw  him,  he  said,  rather  stiffly — 

*  I  hope  you  won't  think  any  more  about  those  drawings, 
Lisa.  I  should  be  sorry  for  you  to  go  on  vexing  yourself  for  a 
thing  that  can't  be  helped,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  had  not  the 
least  idea  they  were  of  any  consequence  to  me.' 

She  looked  up  with  a  blush.  If  he  had  spoken  less  gravely, 
she  would  have  burst  out  with  all  the  regret  she  felt,  but  his 
cold  and  formal  tone  checked  her  usual  eagerness,  and  she  only 
said,  *  I  am  very  sorry  ;  and  more  sorry  still  since  Mary  told  me 
about  them,  and  why  you  cared  for  them.  I  wish  I  had  never 
been  so  angry.' 

It  was  all  she  could  get  out,  though  vexed  with  herself  for 
saying  so  little  and  appearing  so  indifferent.  *  But  it 's  not  my 
fault,'  she  thought ;  *  if  he  didn't  look  so  grave  I  could  tell  him 
a  great  deal  more.  I  would  let  him  see  how  very  sorry  I  really 
am,  but  I  can't  while  he  looks  like  that.  I  wonder  whether  lie 
expects  me  to  say  anything  else.' 

Whether  he  did  or  not,  did  not  appear.  He  began  to  talk 
on  some  other  subject,  but  she  could  not  feel  certain  that  she 
was  forgiven,  and  for  some  days  she  was  very  shy  and  constrained 
in  his  presence,  and  hardly  spoke  to  him,  though  she  saw  hinz 
often  enough — too  often,  indeed,  in  her  opinion,  for  when  Mary 
was  disengaged,  he  was  very  fond  of  coming  to  her  room,  and 
bringing  there  his  books  or  mathematical  instruments,  or  what- 
ever else  he  might  be  busy  with.  At  first,  Lisa  thought  this  a 
great  bore,  and  wished  him  miles  away,  but  she  began  by  degrees 

D 


50  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

to  look  forward  to  these  visits  as  something  to  relieve  the  tedium 
of  many  weary  hours,  when,  tired  with  lying  in  one  position, 
and  being  always  occupied  with  the  same  round  of  emplojanents, 
she  was  glad  of  almost  any  change  to  give  her  something  fresh 
to  think  about. 

Her  studies  went  on  as  usual  with  Mary,  and  that  part  of  the 
day  w^hicli  was  taken  up  with  them  was  got  through  very  well. 
But  her  leisure  hours  often  hung  heavily  on  her  hands,  for  she 
had  an  unfortunate  distaste  for  needlework ;  and  although  she 
liked  reading  well  enough,  she  got  tired  even  of  that  at  times. 
Percy's  visits  began,  therefore,  to  be  welcome  rather  than  other- 
wise, even  if  it  were  for  nothing  else  than  the  pleasure  of 
watching  him,  sometimes  from  real  interest  in  what  he  was 
doing,  sometimes  to  have  a  little  private  fun  at  his  expense, 
'  because  he  was  so  very  blind  and  so  plain.' 

But  as  she  began  to  know  him  better,  and  to  lose  the  prejudice 
which  she  had  entertained  against  him,  she  could  not  help 
acknowledging  to  herself,  that  he  was  by  no  means  so  disagree- 
able as  she  had  imagined  him  to  be.  She  discovered,  indeed, 
that  he  could  be  quite  the  contrary  when  he  pleased,  and  he 
certainly  was  very  kind,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  td 
amuse  and  give  her  pleasure  w^hen  he  saw  she  was  tired  and 
dull,  and  pining  for  fresh  air  and  her  old  liberty.  He  brought 
her  wild  flowers  from  the  woods,  all  her  favourites  in  profusion, 
which  she  loved  far  better  than  any  garden  ones,  and  he  told 
her  all  that  was  going  on  at  the  farm,  in  which  she  took  great 
interest,  and  supplied  her  with  many  new  books  and  engravings 
which  he  thought  she  would  like  to  see ;  and  happening  one  day 
to  see  a  drawing  of  hers  that  had  been  left  about,  he  asked  if 
she  would  not  like  to  have  some  lessons  in  the  art,  and  offered 
to  teach  her.  If  one  thing  could  have  delighted  her  more  than 
any  other  it  was  this  offer.  She  told  eagerly  how  very  fond  she 
was  of  drawing,  and  how  much  she  had  always  wished  to  learn. 
She  did  not  know,  though,  how  it  was  to  be  managed  while  she 
was  obliged  to  lie  there ;  but  he  set  to  work  forthwith  and 
manufactured  a  board  which  could  be  fastened  on  the  sofa,  and 
raised  or  lowered  as  she  pleased  ;  and  furnished  with  this  and 
proper  materials,  she  took  her  first  lesson  in  a  state  of  absorbed 
delight,  which  made  her  for  the  time  oblivious  of  everything 
else.  She  never  seemed  to  grow  tired,  indeed,  of  this  favourite 
occupation,  and  made  such  progress  in  it  as  to  astonish  every- 
body, while  it  served  to  pass  away  many  hours  which  she  would 


INDIAN  TALES.  51 

ot5?ftrw?j}e  have  spent  in  gazing  out  of  the  window,  vainly  wish- 
iyg  that  she  were  able  to  run  and  walk  again. 

'  It  certainly  is  very  kind  of  Percy  to  take  so  much  trouble 
aobut  me/  she  thought.  '  I  wonder  why  he  does  it,  for  I  am 
EU^e  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  had  no  business  to  tear  up  those 
sketches.  I  wonder  whether  he  remembers  anything  about 
them ;  he  can't  have  forgotten,  surely,  and  yet  he  has  never 
said  a  word  to  me  since,  and  he  is  as  kind  as  if  I  had  never 
done  or  said  a  rude  thing  to  him  in  my  life.  Sometimes  I 
almost  think  I  begin  to  like  him  a  little  ;  but — Ah,  well,  he  is 
dreadfully  plain,  certainly ;  and,  after  all,  I  am  not  obliged  to 
like  him.  I  may  think  him  kind  without  caring  about  him, 
and  I  do  think  that.     I  never  mean  to  be  rude  to  him  again.' 


CHAPTEK   VIII. 

INDIAN    TALES. 

*  Would  you  like  to  go  for  a  drive  this  afternoon,  Lisa  ? '  said 
Percy,  as,  one  very  bright  day  early  in  May,  he  came  into  Mary's 
room.  '  We  can  have  the  carriage  for  an  hour  or  two,  and,  if 
you  like,  I  will  drive  you  over  to  Copelands.' 

^  Drive  me  to  Copelands  ? '  And  her  face  flushed  with  plea- 
sure.    *  How  delightful !     Do  you  really  mean  it  ? ' 

*  Yes.  I  have  been  trying  to  get  the  carriage  for  some  days, 
bT?.t  my  father  has  been  so  busy  he  could  not  spare  it.  It  won't 
be  wanted,  though,  this  afternoon,  and  he  is  glad  for  you  to  have 
the  drive.  Mary  is  coming  with  us ;  and  if  you  like  you  can  try 
ycur  hand  at  sketching ;  this  will  be  a  good  opportunity  to  begin.' 

Lisa  was  very  happy.  The  prospect  of  once  more  being  out 
of  doors  after  three  weeks'  confinement  to  the  house  was  charm- 
ing I  and  when  she  found  herself  in  the  carriage  on  her  way  to 
Copelands,  she  was  brimming  over  with  ecstasy.  Everything 
was  delightful — the  banks  had  never  looked  so  green  before, 
nor  the  hedgerows  so  fresh  and  beautiful — the  pink  and  white 
blossoms  on  the  apple  and  cherry  trees  were  lovely  j  and  so  were 
tlie  early  leaves  of  the  chestnuts  and  silver  birches  ,•  and  the 
glowing  sunlight  on  distant  hill  and  near  meadow  was  brighter 
than  she  had  ever  known  it.  Her  exclamations  of  happiness 
seemed  to  amuse  Percy  not  a  little^  for  he  kept  turning  to  look 


53  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

at  her,  and  there  was  something  like  a  smile  on  his  face  as  he 
watched  the  radiant  expression  of  hers. 

*It  is  a  great  pity  you  can't  see  it  too/  she  said  at  lasb, 
noticing  that  he  was  very  silent,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  more 
occupied  with  contemplating  his  whip -handle  than  admiring  the 
view  which  just  then  lay  before  them.  '  You  must  miss  a  great 
deal  by  being  so  short-sighted.' 

He  smiled  a  little  and  looked  up.  *  I  suppose  I  do.  If  there 
is  anything  particular,  though,  to  see,  I  will  put  on  my  glasses. 
I  don't  use  them  more  than  I  can  help,  because  they  try  my 
eyes,  but  I  can  see  well  enough  when  I  have  them  on.  Is  there 
anything  now  that  I  ought  to  look  at  1 ' 

*  Oh,  no ;  nothing  but  what  you  can  see  every  day.  But  how 
disagreeable  never  to  be  able  to  see  things  without  making  such 
a  preparation  for  looking  at  them  !     It  must  be  very  tiresome.' 

'  Is  it  ?  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  think  about  it ;  one  gets 
used  to  everything  in  time.  I  don't  often  remember,  now,  that 
I  could  see  as  far  as  you  or  anybody  else  once.' 

*  Could  you  ? '     And  she  looked  at  him  in  some  astonishment. 

*  Yes,  till  I  got  this  sabre  cut,'  drawing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.  '  That  detracted  from  my  appearance  in  more  ways 
than  one ;  didn't  it,  Polly  V  he  added,  more  lightly  than  Lisa 
had  ever  heard  him  speak. 

^  No,  I  don't  think  so  ;  people  who  don't  know  you  may  fancy 
so,  perhaps;  but  I  don't,'  Mary  answered,  quickly,  but  with 
so  much  earnestness  in  her  tone  that  Lisa  was  struck.  She 
would  have  liked  to  ask  when  and  how  he  got  it,  but  a  glance 
at  his  face  prevented  her.  He  seemed  to  be  occupied  with  some 
painful  thoughts,  and  for  some  minutes  she  made  no  further 
remark.  But  when  he  turned  off  from  the  high  road  into  a 
narrow  lane,  she  asked  where  they  were  going. 

*  Only  to  some  cottages  down  here.  There  is  one  which 
will  be  a  good  subject  for  your  first  sketch.' 

And  a  very  happy  half-hour  Lisa  spent  near  that  picturesque 
cottage  at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  with  its  overhanging  thatched 
roof,  its  lattice  windows  and  curious  old  porch  ;  and  very  proud 
she  was  of  her  sketch  when  it  was  finished,  until  she  happened 
to  see  one  that  Percy  himself  had  done  in  about  a  quarter  of 
the  time,  while  standing  beside  the  carriage  and  directing 
her  attempts ;  and  then  she  was  so  much  disgusted  with  her 
own  that  she  would  have  torn  it  up  on  the  spot,  if  he  had 
not  rescued  it. 


INDIAN  TALES.  53 

*  No,  Lisa  j  that  would  be  very  absurd.  You  must  remember 
I  have  had  years  of  practice,  and  you  are  only  just  beginning. 
It  would  be  ridiculous  to  tear  it  up  because  you  are  not 
quite  satisfied.' 

*  N(3t  satisfied  at  all,  you  mean,'  remarked  Lisa.  *  It  is 
simply  hideous.'  But  she  did  as  she  was  told  ;  rather  a  wonder- 
ful thing  for  her,  considering  that  the  person  who  spoke  was 
not  Mary  ;  and,  the  sketch-book  and  pencils  being  put  away, 
they  proceeded  to  Copelands  to  pay  their  visit  there. 

A  very  short  visit,  for  it  was  getting  late,  and  almost  time 
to  return  ;  but  while  Mrs  Pye  came  out  to  the  carriage  to 
speak  to  Lisa,  Percy  walked  off  somewhere,  and  was  presently 
seen  returning,  bringing  a  handsome  Skye  terrier  with  him. 

*  Oh,  what  a  beauty  !  Mrs  Pye,  where  did  you  get  him  ?  ' 
Lisa  exclaimed.  ^  What  a  dear  shaggy  little  creature  !  Oh, 
do  let  me  look  at  him.  I  'm  so  fond  of  dogs.  When  did  you 
buy  him  ^ ' 

'  Bless  you,  my  dear,  he  's  none  of  mine,'  returned  Mrs  Pye. 
'  I  don't  care  for  dogs,  and  don't  want  any  in  the  house.  No ; 
the  farmer  got  him  yesterday  for  Captain  Tennent — bought 
him  of  a  lady  at  Burnside.  The  Captain  said  he  'd  come 
to-day  and  fetch  him,  so  you  're  going  to  take  him  back  with 
you,  I  suppose  ? ' 

*  I  hope  so,  I  'm  sure,'  said  Lisa,  growing  excited.  '  Oh, 
put  him  in  here,  please,'  as  Percy  came  up  to  the  carriage. 

*  Mrs  Pye  says  he  is  yours ;  and  may  I  hold  his  chain  1  You 
can't  do  that  and  drive  too.  I  '11  take  great  care  of  him.  Mary, 
did  you  ever  see  such  a  dear,  intelligent-looking  creature  1 
And  his  eyes ' Speech  was  lost  in  admiration. 

'  Are  beautiful — when  you  see  them  !'  said  Mary,  with  a  laugh. 

*  But    that 's    just    as    it    ought    to    be,'    Lisa   exclaimed. 

*  Evidently  you  don't  understand  this  kind  of  dog.  Look  at 
them  now  when  I  push  back  his  hair.  How  bright  and  knowing 
they  are !  Do  you  see  his  mouth,  too  ?  Quite  Hack  j  look 
at  the  roof.     Oh,  he  is  a  beauty  ! ' 

*  I  am  glad  you  like  him,'  Percy  said,  as  they  drove  off. 
^  He  will  be  a  companion  for  you  while  you  are  shut  up ; 
and  I  don't  think  you  will  have  any  trouble  in  making  friends 
with  him.     He  seems  very  sociably  inclined.' 

'  Yes,  I  think  so.  He  is  fond  of  me  already.  But  do  you 
really  mean  I  may  have  him  up-stairs  with  me  while  I  can't 
walk  about  1 ' 


64  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

'  You  may  have  him  as  often  as  you  like,  and  for  as  long 
as  you  like.  To  say  the  truth,  Lisa,  that  was  why  I  got  him, 
I  thought  he  would  be  an  amusement  to  you.  You  can  keep 
him  till  you  are  tired  of  him,  and  when  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  him,  you  must  give  him  back  to  me.^ 

*  And  suppose  I  never  want  to  get  rid  of  him  1  ^  Lisa  said, 
looking  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  curious  expression,  half  of 
wistfulness,  half  of  fun,  and  then  laying  her  head  on  the  dog's 
rough  neck, '  Suppose  I  never  want  to  get  rid  of  him  1 ' 

'Then  you  had  better  keep  him  altogether;  he  will  not 
object  to  having  you  for  his  mistress,  I  dare  say.  And  if 
you  think  you  won't  care  to  part  with  him,  you  may  as  well 
consider  him  yours  at  once.' 

Lisa  raised  her' head  again.  *Mine?  Really'?  But — oh,  no, 
you  can't  be  in  earnest ;  you  would  never  give  him  away  'I ' 
And  she  looked  at  him  very  doubtfully. 

^  Why  not  ?  I  did  not  get  him  for  myself,  and  if  you  don't 
like  to  have  him,  I  must  find  some  one  else  to  take  him. 
But  you  have  so  few  pleasures  just  now  that  I  hoped  he  would 
help  to  amuse  you  a  little,' 

:  Lisa's  astonishment  was  very  great.  *  And  you  got  him 
for  me  1  Really  on  purpose  for  me  ] '  And  then,  as  she  read 
the  answer  in  his  smile,  *  How  very  kind  of  you  !  How  very, 
very  kind  I  But — I  can  hardly  believe  it — I  have  never  had 
a  live  pet  of  my  own  in  my  life  except  my  poor  goldfinch  years 
ago.  And  a  dog  !  I  have  always  wished  for  one  so  much. 
How  good  of  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing  ! '  she  exclaimed, 
in  childish  delight;  adding,  however,  a  moment  afterwards, 
with  a  change  of  tone  and  a  deepening  colour,  *  I  don't  know, 
though,  whether  I  ought  to  have  him.  You  forget  it 's  my  own 
fault  that  I  can't  run  about.  If  I  had  done  as  I  was  told, 
I  needn't  have  been  shut  up.' 

'  No,  I  know  that ;  it  was  not  very  wise  of  you,  Lisa.* 

'  Not  very  wise,  and  not  very  right,  either,'  she  said,  ear- 
nestly. '  I  have  been  very  sorry  for  it  since  :  sorry  for  that,  and 
for  a  good  many  other  things  too.'  And  once  more  she  laid  her 
head  down  among  the  dog's  shaggy  hair.  *  I  wonder  what  his 
name  is^'  she  said,  after  a  pause,  resuming  her  usual  manner. 
*  I  hope  it 's  a  pretty  one.' 

But  on  this  subject  Percy  could  not  enlighten  her,  for  he  had 
forgotten  to  ask.  He  believed,  however,  some  one  had  told  him 
it  was  Prince,  and  as  the  dog,  when  appealed  to  by  Lisa,  wagged 


INDIAN  TALES.  55 

hif>  tall,  and  looked  knowing,  the  name,  whether  originally  his  or 
not,  was  set  down  to  him  at  once.  *  And  a  very  good  name  it  is 
for  him  too,'  she  remarked.  *  I  shall  take  such  care  of  him,  and 
I  am  so  glad  to  have  him  !  I  only  hope  Aunt  Helen  will  let  me 
keep  him ;  she  has  always  taken  everything  away  from  me  be- 
fore. Whenever  I  got  angry,  she — ah,  well,  I  won't  talk  about 
it  now,  for  you  don't  like  to  hear  me  say  such  things,  I  know, 
Mary.'  And  Lisa  smothered  her  rising  resentment  in  hugs  and 
caresses  of  her  new  treasure. 

She  was  on  her  sofa  that  evening,  with  the  dog  beside  her, 
thinking  of  all  the  pleasures  she  had  had  that  day,  when  a  per- 
son who  had  called  about  some  needlework  was  shown  into  the 
room  where  she  was  lying.  Mrs  Daly  was  an  old  acquaintance, 
and  Lisa  had  many  questions  to  ask  her  about  herself  and  her 
family,  and  grew  very  much  interested  in  hearing  various  parti- 
culars concerning  them.  She  was  struck,  however,  after  a  time, 
by  a  change  in  the  woman's  manner,  and,  on  looking  up  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  a  short  answer  she  had  received,  she  saw  that 
Mrs  Daly's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  likeness  of  Percy  which 
hung  over  the  piano.  It  had  arrested  her  attention  so  completely, 
that  for  some  moments  she  evidently  forgot  everything  else. 
Her  earnest  gaze  suq^rised  Lisa  not  a  little,  and  she  wondered 
what  had  brought  that  strange  look  to  her  face,  and  the  tears  to 
her  eyes  ;  for  that  there  were  tears  she  saw  plainly,  though  they 
were  brushed  away  when  Mrs  Daly  became  aware  that  she  was 
observed. 

*  You  know  that,  then  V  Lisa  said,  after  a  pause.  *  You  have 
seen  my  cousin,  I  suppose?' 

*  Yes.'  The  woman's  face  brightened.  '  It 's  very  like  him,' 
she  added,  turning  to  the  picture  again.  *  Like  what  he  used  to 
be,  I  mean.' 

*  Why,  did  you  know  him,  then  V  Lisa  asked.  *  It 's  a  long 
time  since  that  was  taken.' 

'  Yes ;  but  I  knew  him  in  India,  Miss  Lisa.  He  looks  much 
older  now.  But  that 's  what  he  was  then ;  what  he  was  when 
he  saved  my  child — my  little  Ted.  God  bless  him  for  it !'  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  again.  '  May  I  look  at  it.  Miss  Lisa,  a 
little  nearer,  if  you  please?'  And  she  walked  across  the  room, 
and  stood  gazing  at  it  with  the  most  intense  interest.  It's  so 
like  him — ^just  as  he  used  to  look  !'  she  murmured  to  herself. 

*When  was  it?'  Lisa  asked,  her  curiosity  excited.  *  When 
did  he  save  your  child  ?     Ted,  you  said  1 — that  nice  big  boy  of 


56  ATHERSTONE  PRTORY. 

yours.  How  was  it  ?  Tell  me,'  in  her  slightly  imperious  way. 
'  I  like  to  hear  those  kind  of  things.  You  can  look  at  that  and 
tell  me,  too,  you  know.' 

Mrs  Daly  smiled  a  little,  but  she  was  nothing  loath  to  tell  her 
tale,  though  she  wondered  Miss  Lisa  had  not  heard  it  before ; 
MiteS  Mary  knew  it,  and  she  thought  every  one  else  did — with 
which  preface  she  began  a  story  of  her  past  days.  She  had  been 
the  wife  of  a  sergeant,  and  had  follov/ed  him  to  India,  where  she 
had  gone  through  great  hardships.  The  incident  to  which  she 
alluded  had  occurred  in  the  second  Sikh  war,  when,  in  the  hnrry 
and  confusion  consequent  upon  the  evacuation  of  some  fort,  her 
child,  then  not  much  more  than  a  year  old,  had  been  overlooked 
and  left  behind.  She  was  ill  at  the  time,  and  unable  to  see 
to  her  baby,  which  had  been  given  in  charge  to  another  persou, 
and  her  horror  upon  arriving  at  the  place  of  safety,  to  which 
she,  with  the  other  women  and  the  children,  had  been  con- 
veyed, and  finding  that  her  child  had  been  forgotten,  was  too 
great  to  be  described.  The  English  army  was  in  retreat,  and 
she  knew  that  the  fort  which  had  just  been  evacuated  was  to 
be  blown  up  to  prevent  its  falling  into  the  enemy's  hands.  A 
party  of  engineers  had  stayed  behind  for  that  purpose,  and  that 
her  child  would  perish  in  the  explosion  she  never  doubted.  She 
could  not  tell  calmly,  even  now,  of  the  fears  and  agonies  of  those 
long  hours ;  how,  unable  to  rest  where  they  had  laid  her,  she 
wandered  up  and  down,  not  asking  for  her  baby,  for  she  never 
hoped  to  see  it  again,  but  scanning  every  face  to  find  one  that 
had  come  from  the  place  where  it  had  been  left,  that  she  might 
hear  something,  even  if  it  were  only  to  know  that  all  was  over. 
She  told,  too,  how  all  day  long  she  had  listened  to  the  firing 
in  the  distance,  until,  when  evening  closed,  it  ceased  at  length ; 
and  parties  came  trooping  in,  and  amongst  them  some  engi- 
neers. 

'  I  watched  them  come  in,  and  I  saw  them  standing  round  a 
watch-fire.  Miss  Lisa ;  and  for  a  long  time  I  stood  and  looked  at 
them,  stupid-like,  for  I  seemed  as  if  I  could  neither  speak  nor 
move.  But  after  a  bit,  I  saw  there  was  one  of  them,  an  oflScer, 
who  had  something  in  his  arms;  he  was  covered  with  blood 
and  black  with  powder,  and  his  face  looked  ghastly  in  the  fire- 
light; but  I  heard  them  say  it  was  him  that  had  had  the  blowing- 
up  of  the  fort ;  and  I  can't  tell  why  it  was,  but  something  like 
hope  seemed  to  come  back  to  me,  and  I  went  up  to  him.  Ah, 
Miss  Lisa,  I  don't  know  how  it  all  happened  now ;  I  don't  know 


INDIAN  TALES.  57 

how  I  got  my  baby ;  but  it  was  him  he  had — my  little  Ted — 
not  hurt,  not  a  scratch  about  him,  and  fast  asleep  in  his  arms,  as 
if  he  had  been  in  mine.  I  just  went  down  on  my  knees  to  thank 
Jiim,  but  I  couldn't.  I  looked  at  him,  but  I  couldn't  say  one 
word,  and  he  didn't  wait  to  hear  me — he  gave  him  back  to  me, 
and  then  he  was  off  before  I  could  speak.  But  they  told  me  all 
afterwards ;  how  when  the  train  was  laid,  and  he — Lieutenant 
Tennent,  that's  what  he  was  then — when  he  had  lighted  the 
match  with  his  own  hand,  and  had  stayed  behind  after  he  sent 
the  others  off,  to  make  sure  it  was  burning,  he  heard  a  child  cry, 
and  at  the  rislc  of  his  own  life  ran  back  and  found  my  Ted,  and 
brought  him  off.  He  was  only  just  in  time — he  was  thrown 
down  by  the  explosion  and  stunned  for  some  minutes,  but  he 
had  got  my  child,  and  he  kept  him  fast — and  he  carried  him 
through  all  that  hard  fighting  that  day,  and  gave  him  back  to 
me  at  night,  when  I  thought  I  had  lost  him  for  ever.  I  shall 
never  forget  it,  Miss  Lisa.  I  would  go  through  fire  and  water 
for  him,  I  would ;  and  my  husband  would  have  done  the  same.' 
Mrs  Daly's  voice  was  very  husky  as  she  spoke. 

^  It  was  very  brave  of  him,'  said  Lisa,  her  eye  kindling  and 
her  colour  deepening  while  she  listened. 

^  Brave — yes — there  wasn't  a  braver  in  all  the  army  than  he 
was;  and  he  was  good,  too.  Miss  Lisa,  and  kind.  Everybody 
Baid  the  same  of  him ;  he  was  always  the  one  to  do  a  kindness, 
or  help  anybody  who  wanted  it.  He  was  kind  to  me — the  best 
friend  I  ever  had.  He  took  a  great  fancy  to  Ted  after  that  day — 
he  was  always  fond  of  children,  you  know,  miss — and  he  never 
met  me  afterwards  without  coming  to  ask  after  him.  I  used  to 
see  him  often ;  and  when  my  husband  died  out  there,  and  I  was 
in  such  distress,  wasn't  he  kind  to  me  1  He  paid  my  passage 
home ;  and  as  I'd  hardly  a  friend  in  England,  and  none  to  go  to, 
he  told  me  to  come  down  here,  and  wrote  to  Miss  Mary  about  me. 
I  'm  getting  on  well  now,  and  my  boys  are  growing  up  nicely ; 
they'll  be  big  fellows  soon,  and  they're  a  comfort  to  me — Ted 
in  particular ;  and  I  don't  forget  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
Captain,  I  shouldn't  have  had  him  now.' 

Here  Mary's  entrance  put  a  stop  to  Mrs  Daljr's  communica- 
tions ;  and  Lisa,  though  she  would  have  liked  to  ask  a  hundred 
other  questions,  was  obliged  to  restrain  her  curiosity.  No  sooner, 
however,  did  she  find  herself  alone  with  her  cousin  than  she 
began,  eagerly : — 

*  Mary,  I  should  like  very  much  to  ask  you  something.' 


58  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY* 

There  was  a  smile  from  Mary  at  the  abrupt  way  in  which 
this  was  said. 

'  It 's  about  Percy/  she  went  on.  '  I  've  been  hearing  of  him 
from  Mrs  Daly  just  now — about  Ted,  you  know.  Mary,  it  was 
very  brave  of  him,  wasn't  it  1  And  I  do  like  to  hear  of  brave 
things.'  Her  eyes  were  sparkling  again.  *I  always  did  ;  and  I 
had  never  heard  of  this  before.' 

*  Hadn't  you  1  Well,  you  have  had  a  full  account  of  it  now,  I 
am  quite  sure,'  was  the  answer. 

^  Not  a  bit  more  than  I  liked.  I  should  like  to  have  heard  a 
great  deal  more,  indeed,  only  you  came  in  and  prevented  me. 
But,  Mary,  what  I  was  wanting  to  ask  you  was  about  that 
terrible  cut  he  has  on  his  forehead.  Do  you  mind  telling  me 
how  he  got  it  1    In  fighting,  was  it  ?' 

*  Yes,  dear ;  in  the  same  war,  but  later,  at  the  siege  of  Mooltan.' 

*  Well  1 '  Lisa  was  looking  at  her  impatiently,  finding  she 
did  not  go  on.  *  Why  don't  you  tell  me,  Mary  ?  You  don't 
mind  my  knowing  about  it,  do  you  1  1  fancied,  do  you  know, 
from  what  you  said  this  afternoon,  that ' 

*  That  he  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  it,  and  so  he  has.  He 
was  defending  a  brother-officer  who  had  been  badly  wounded, 
from  a  party  of  Sikhs,  when  he  was  cut  down  himself.  For- 
tunately some  of  his  own  soldiers  came  up  at  the  time,  or  they 
would  both  have  been  killed.  Percy  was  supposed  to  be  dead 
when  they  carried  him  off,  and  for  weeks  afterwards  no  one 
thought  he  would  recover.' 

Lisa  was  silent.  She  fancied  from  her  cousin's  manner  that 
she  had  not  heard  all  yet ;  and  she  was  right,  for  after  a  pause 
Mary  said,  with  some  hesitation — 

'It  was  Captain  Carleton  whom  he  saved,  and' 

'  Captain  Carleton,  that  friend  of  his  that  you  told  me  about 
the  other  day  ? ' 

'  Yes,  dear ;  but  they  were  not  friends  then — quite  the  con- 
trary. Captain  Carleton  had  done  him  a  great  wrong,  and  for 
months  before  that  day  at  Mooltan  they  had  never  spoken  to 
each  other  except  when  absolutely  obliged.  There  were  faults 
on  both  sides,  I  believe ;  at  least  Percy  has  said  since,  things 
need  not  have  gone  so  far  [if  he  had  not  been  too  proud  to 
explain  circumstances  in  which  he  was  misjudged.  But  the 
chief  fault  lay  with  Captain  Carleton — he  owned  it  himself 
afterwards.  He  was  angry,  and  listened  to  misrepresentations ; 
and  he  did  Percy  great  injury  in  more  ways  than  one.     He  was 


INDIAN  TALES.  59 

his  senior  by  three  or  four  years,  and  captain  of  his  company  ; 
so  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  annoy  him  exceedingly  at  times, 
and  he  did.  We  never  knew  at  the  time  how  much  Percy 
suffered  through  him,  and  I  don't  suppose  we  ever  should  have 
known  it  if  it  had  not  been  for  Captain  Carleton  himself.  He 
got  well  long  before  Percy  did,  and  he  was  very  grateful.  He 
did  everything  he  could  for  him  while  he  was  ill,  and  used  to 
write  to  us  constantly,  and  in  one  of  his  letters  he  told  us  all 
that  had  happened.  Such  a  noble  letter  it  was,  and  he  spoke 
of  Percy — well,  never  mind  what  he  said,  but  I  know  that  I 
was  proud  of  my  brother.  I  had  a  right  to  be,  for  it  was  not 
every  one,  no,  nor  one  in  a  thousand,  who  would  have  done  what 
he  did.'     Mary's  eyes  were  glistening  as  she  spoke. 

*  And  that  was  what  made  them  friends  ? '  said  Lisa  thought- 
fully, after  a  long  pause. 

^  Yes,  they  were  fast  friends  after  that ;  and  when  he  died 
two  or  three  years  ago,  Percy  felt  his  death  as  much  as  if  he  had 
been  his  brother.  It  was  a  fever  of  some  sort  that  he  had,  and 
hardly  any  one  would  go  near  him  because  it  was  supposed  to  be 
infectious ;  but  Percy  nursed  him  day  and  night  through  it  all, 
and  was  with  him  when  he  died.  He  was  dreadfully  cut  up, 
and  I  don't  think  he  has  got  over  it  even  now,  for  he  never 
seems  to  like  to  hear  his  name  mentioned.  But  that  is  just  like 
him,  though  nobody  believes  it  of  him  in  general.  He  is  cold 
and  reserved  in  manner,  and  very  few  people  know  how  warm- 
hearted he  really  is.'  And  Mary,  who,  like  many  another  sister, 
could  grow  eloquent  in  talking  of  her  brother,  went  on  to  tell 
of  many  instances  of  his  unselfishness,  and  care  for  those  whose 
weakness  or  danger  had  claimed  his  assistance. 

Lisa  listened  to  it  all,  but  she  said  very  little  in  answer.  She 
was  unusually  silent,  not  only  then,  but  all  that  evening ;  and 
when  Mary  was  called  away,  she  lay  in  the  dusk,  looking  up 
into  the  lime-trees  above  her  window,  too  much  engrossed  with 
her  own  thoughts  to  care  to  turn  to  any  other  occupation.  What 
these  thoughts  were  she  would  have  found  it  hard  to  tell,  and 
she  made  no  attempt  to  analyse  them.  There  was  only  one 
thing  of  which  she  was  conscious,  and  that  was  a  feeling  of 
self-reproach  for  the  injustice  she  had  done  her  cousin.  She  was 
ashamed  to  think  how  often  she  had  ridiculed  him  for  his  plain 
looks  and  short-sightedness ;  how  often,  too,  she  had  laughed 
at  him  for  the  very  thing  for  which  she  ought  most  to  have 
honoured  him.     For  that  scar  which  she  considered  such  a  dis- 


60  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

figurement,  and  which  had  provoked  her  thoughtless  wit  into 
bestowing  on  him  a  nickname,  had  been  gained  in  saving  the 
life  of  one  who  had  wronged  him,  and  was,  in  truth,  the  noblest 
decoration  he  could  have  worn.  ^  I  wish  I  had  never  been  so 
foolish,  so  wicked,'  she  said  to  herself.  *  If  1  had  only  known  all 
this  before,  I  never  would  have  laughed  at  him.  I  wonder 
whether  he  ever  heard  me !  Oh,  I  hope  not !  But  I  don't 
think  he  did :  he  wouldn't  have  been  so  kind  to  me  surely  if  : 
he  had.  I  like  him  now,  though  he  is  so  plain.  I  am  not  sure, 
indeed,  that  he  is  so  very  plain.  He  didn't  look  so  this  after- 
noon. When  he  smiled  he  was  rather  like  Mary,  and  if  he  were  ; 
not  so  grave,  I  fancy  he  would  be  good-looking.  I  don't  know 
why  he  shouldn't  be,  for  he  hasn't  such  bad  features ;  I  've 
seen  people  with  much  worse.  It 's  only  because  he  has  such 
black  hair    and   is    so  dark,  and  looks  so  old,   and  has — and 

is Oh  dear,  how  siUy  I  am  !    What  does  it  matter  what 

his  looks  are,  if  I  like  him,  which  I  do  most  certainly  1    And  very 
odd  it  is,  for  I  never  meant  to  do  so.' 

Her  cogitations  were  brought  to  an  end  by  the  entrance  of  a  : 
servant  with  lights ;  but  when  she  went  to  bed  that  night,  her 
thoughts  returned  to  her  cousin  Percy,  and  in  her  dreams  she 
saw  him  on  the  battle-field,  with  a  little  child  in  his  arms,  fight-  '[ 
ing  his  way  through  drawn  swords  and  the  flash  of  musketry ; 
and  then,  trembling  with  fear,  she  seemed  to  stand  by  his  side, 
while  he  kept  at  bay  the  fierce-looking  soldiers  who  were  crowd- 
ing round  them,  and  who  pressed  hard  on  some  prostrate  figure, 
whose  half-hidden  face  was  strangely  like  Arthur's.  With  which 
medley  of  thoughts  her  sleep  became  a  sound  one  and  dreams 
terminated. 

It  was  with  different  feelings,  however,  from  those  with  which  ■ 
she  had  hitherto  regarded  him  that  she  met  her  cousin  the  next  j 
day;    so   different  were  they,  that  she  almost  expected  to  see 
some  change  in  him,  and  was  disappointed  to  find  him  looking  ' 
as  he  always  did,  with  nothing  about  him  of  the  hero  into  which* 
her  imagination  had  exalted  him.     No ;  he  was  only  her  plain 
and  silent  cousin  Percy;  just  as  plain  and  silent  as  she  had  al- 
ways known  him,  and  evidently  far  enough  from  suspecting  the 
deep  interest,  almost  reverence,  with  which  she  now  looked  upon 
him.     But  in  spite  of  the  momentary  disappointment  she  expe- 
rienced at  this,  she  could  never  again  in  thought  or  word  depre-  : 
ciate  him  as  she  had  once  done.     Grave  and  reserved  he  might  ' 
be  still,  and  with  no  good  looks  to  please  those  who  cared  only  \ 


Isabel's  keturn.  61 

for  personal  advantages ;  but  never  could  she  think  slightingly  of 
him  who  had  perilled  his  life  for  one  who  had  wronged  him,  and 
who  had  braved  danger  and  death  itself  to  carry  a  little  child 
back  to  its  mother.  In  her  eyes  from  that  day  he  was  a  hero — 
and  a  hero  all  the  more  from  his  unconsciousness  of  having  done 
anything  to  arouse  her  feelings  of  interest  and  admiration. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
Isabel's  retubn. 

*  Isabel  comes  back  this  day  fortnight,'  remarked  Elinor  one 
afternoon  a  week  or  two  later.  *  I  am  very  glad,  for  I  shall  get 
off  some  of  these  disagreeable  calls  when  she  is  at  home,  I  dis- 
like them  so  much,  and  it 's  so  hot  to-day  ! ' 

'  So  it  is.'  And  Lisa  raised  her  head  from  the  drawing  over 
which  she  was  bending,  and  pushed  back  her  hair  from  her  face. 

*  Is  Isabel  really  coming  back  so  soon  1 '  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

^  Yes ;  why  not  1  I  am  sure  she  has  been  away  long  enough. 
She  is  quite  well  now,  she  says,  and  Janet  is  tired  of  Italy ;  so 
they  mean  to  leave  the  Parkers  to  finish  their  tour  alone,  and  get 
back  as  soon  as  they  can.  Mr  Thorpe — Cunninghame  Thorpe, 
you  know — goes  to  fetch  them.' 

'  Mr  Thorpe  !  I  don't  know  anything  about  him/  was  Lisa's 
answer,  in  rather  an  absent  tone. 

*  Don't  know  anything  about  him  !  Oh,  no,  I  forgot.  Well, 
you  will  see  him  the  week  after  next,  for  he  is  coming  down 
with  Janet  and  Isabel,  and  I  daresay  he  will  stay  here  before  he 
goes  on  to  his  uncle  at  the  Moat.' 

'  His  uncle  1 ' 

*  Yes,  his  uncle.  My  dear  Lisa,  how  can  you  be  so  stupid  ! 
You  can't  pretend  not  to  know  that  old  Sir  Richard  Thorpe  is 
Janet's  uncle ;  and  of  course  he  must  be  her  brother's  too.  What 
are  you  thinking  of  to  be  so  silly  1 ' 

'  I  don't  know.  I  am  sure  I  had  forgotten  that  Janet  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  Moat.' 

'  Very  likely ;  I  don't  believe  you  ever  remember  things,  Lisa, 
like  other  people.  But  you  ought  to  have  known  that,  because 
Janet  went  there  several  times  when  she  was  here  last,  and  she 
was  always  talking  of  her  grumpy  old  uncle.  Oh  dear,  here  's  a 
button  off  my  glove  !     I  wonder  where  Mary  is,  to  sew  it  on 


62  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

again.  Old  Sir  Richard  is  very  ricli,  and  Cunninghame  Thorpe 
will  have  that  place  when  he  dies,  and  the  baronetcy  too.  His 
father  was  Sir  Richard's  younger  brother,  you  know.' 

'  No,  I  didn't  know  it/  Cunninghame  Thorpe  was  nothing 
to  Lisa. 

'  He  is  not  at  all  like  Janet,'  Elinor  went  on,  with  a  long  yawn. 
'  He  is  very  handsome — has  the  most  splendid  blue  eyes  you 
ever  saw,  and  such  a  moustache !  He  will  be  an  acquisition 
here,  I  expect,  for  he  can  make  himself  very  agreeable,  though 

Isabel  does  say  she  can't  bear  him,  and  Arthur Oh,  that 

reminds  me  that  Arthur  is  not  coming.  He 's  going  to  Gainsf ord 
instead.' 

'  Going  to  Gainsford  !  How  tiresome  !  That 's  Ralph's  doing, 
of  course.     How  provoking  of  him  ! ' 

*  Very.  But  he  won't  stay  long ;  only  till  Ralph  can  get  away 
himself ;  and  then  they  both  come  here.  Ah,  there  's  mamma 
calling  me.  And  here  's  Percy  coming  to  look  after  your  draw- 
ing. I  wish  I  were  you,  Lisa,  to  stay  at  home  and  lie  on  the 
sofa.'  And  Elinor  sauntered  oflP,  wondering  how  the  button  was 
to  get  on  her  glove  before  she  went  out. 

'  I  am  not  so  fond  of  lying  here,'  Lisa  remarked  as  the  door 
closed.  ^And,  O  Captain  Tennent,  do  come  and  look  at  this 
thing,  and  tell  me  where  it 's  wrong.  It  is  horrid,  and  I  can't 
get  it  right.' 

She  threw  down  her  pencil  a  little  pettishly,  but  her  face 
brightened  again  as  he  sat  down  beside  her  and  began  to  make 
the  necessary  corrections.  '  I  was  hot  and  cross,'  she  said  then 
apologetically ;  '  but  it 's  not  so  bad  after  all,  I  see.  I  want  to 
draw  well/  she  added,  after  a  pause  ;  *  I  think  if  I  can  do  that, 
and  play  well  too,  I  shall  get  more  money.' 

*  Get  more  money  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  when  I  have  to  teach,  I  mean.  I  am  to  be  a  governess 
some  day,  you  know.' 

^  No,  I  did  not  know  it.' 

'  Yes.  This  isn't  my  home  j  I  have  none  of  my  own,  and  I 
can't  live  here  always.' 

'  Why  not  ?     What  is  there  to  prevent  it  1 '  he  said  hastily. 

*  I  don't  know ;  but — what  have  I  said  ?  Have  I  vexed 
you  r 

*  Vexed  me  ? '  and  he  smiled.  '  No  ;  what  could  make  you 
fancy  such  a  thing  ?  But  what  reason  did  you  give  for  not  being 
able  to  stay  here  1     You  have  no  home  of  your  own,  and  have 


Isabel's  return.  68 

a  right  to  look  to  us,  as  your  nearest  relations,  to  give  you 
one.' 

*  I  don't  know.  Aunt  Helen  don't  think  so  at  any  rate.'  She 
hesitated.  *  I  can't  help  myself  now ;  but  I  would  rather  not 
stay  by-and-by.^ 

^  You  would  not  ?  And  why  not,  may  I  ask  1 '  And  then,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  her  crimson  face,  *  My  dear  Lisa,  you  can't 
suppose  that  anybody  here  grudges  you  house-room.' 

'My  dear  Lisa.'  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  at  the  words, 
and  the  tone  in  which  they  were  said,  but  she  made  an  attempt 
to  laugh.  *  No,  I  suppose  not ;  I  'm  not  very  big,  and  I  don't 
take  up  much  room  anywhere.  But,  oh,  you  must  have  seen  it, 
Aunt  Helen  don't  care  for  me — she  never  has — she  has  always 
said  I  must  go ;  and  I  would  rather.  I  don't  wish  to  stay  where 
I  know  I  am  not  wanted.' 

Percy  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  and  when  he  spoke  again 
his  voice  was  changed.  '  And  you  don't  mind  the  idea  of  a 
governess's  life  V  he  said  then. 

'  Mind  it  ?  No ;  why  should  I  ?  I  think  I  shall  like  it.  I 
shall  like  working  and  earning  my  own  money,  and  being ' 

*  Independent.' 

'  Yes,  and  being  independent.  It  isn't  wrong  to  like  that,  is 
it  ?  The  only  thing  is  that  I  don't  know  exactly  what  governesses 
do,  and  I  am  afraid  I  should  make  such  lots  of  mistakes.  But 
I  suppose  I  should  learn  in  time,  and  I  should  only  begin  with 
quite  little  children  at  first.  It  would  be  great  fun,  I  think, 
and  I  am  so  fond  of  children ;  I  have  some  dear  little  things 
at  the  Sunday-school,  you  know;  they  don't  do  much  but 
tumble  off  the  forms,  and  then  I  pick  them  up  again ;  but 
still  I  teach  them  a  little,  so  I  suppose  I  could  teach  others 
too.' 

'And  so  you  will  not  mind  leaving  the  Priory?'  Percy 
said  after  some  moments'  silence;  'you  will  be  glad  to  get 
away*?' 

'  Glad  1  What,  to  leave  Mary  and  uncle  Henry,  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  me  !  If  you  knew  what  I  feel  when  I  think  of 
leaving  them,  you  wouldn't  say  I  was  glad.'  There  was  some- 
thing of  reproach  in  her  tone.  '  It  will  make  me  miserable  ;  but 
what  can  I  do  ?  I  would  rather  work  than  stay  here,  even  to 
be  with  Mary ;  but  I  wish — oh,  I  wish  I  had  a  home  of  my  own ; 
a  home  where  I  had  a  right  to  be.  Sometimes  at  night  I  fancy 
that  I  have ;  I  dream  that  I  am  back  there  again,  and  I  can  see 


64  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

it  all  quite  plain,  though  it's  years  ago  since  I  was  there.  I 
don't  know  what  I  do  exactly,  but  I  am  very  happy ;  and  then 
I  wake  and  it  ^s  all  gone.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  it,  and  some- 
times I  feel  very  lonely  and  miserable ;  only  then  I  try  to  think 
of  the  bright  side — of  the  little  children,  and  of  earning  my  own 
money.  How  much  do  you  think  I  shall  get  ?  But  you  don't 
know  anything  about  governesses,  do  youf 

Percy  did  know  quite  enough  about  them  to  make  him  hope 
most  fervently  that  it  might  never  be  his  cousin's  lot  to  learn 
anything  of  their  life  from  personal  experience ;  but  he  did  not 
say  so,  and  only  answered,  rather  shortly,  *  that  he  had  not  seen 
much  of  them.'  He  was  in  one  of  what  Lisa  called  ^  his  dread- 
fully grave  moods,'  about  which  she  had  lately ^begun  to  rally 
him.     He  changed  the  subject. 

*  You  are  going  out  this  evening,'  he  said.  '  I  have  asked 
for  the  carriage,  and  we  are  going  to  Delse  Common,  you 
know.' 

*  Yes,  for  one  of  my  last  drives.  How  pleasant  they  have 
been  !  I  shall  be  sorry  to  give  them  up,  though  I  like  walking 
so  much  better.  And  to-morrow  I  am  to  begin  to  use  my  foot 
again.  I  am  going  to  borrow  your  stick  and  hop  about  the 
garden,  and  in  a  week  or  two  I  daresay  I  shall  be  able 
to  walk  as  well  as  anybody.  But  you  will  let  me  go  on 
with  my  reading  and  drawing,  won't  you?  I  shouldn't  like 
to  lose  all  my  pleasures  at  once.' 

Isabel  came,  and  with  her  arrived  Janet  Darrell,  the  wife  of 
Arthur's  elder  brother,  and  Mr  Cunninghame  Thorpe.  Lisa,  who 
was  taking  a  French  lesson  at  the  time,  and  who  heard  the 
murmur  of  voices  below,  had  her  attention  wofully  distracted 
by  these  sounds,  and  fell  into  dire  disgrace  with  Madame  Eicard 
in  consequence.  When  Isabel,  having  dressed  for  dinner,  came 
into  the  room,  Madame  was  discovered  in  a  highly  excited 
state,  and  her  pupil,  with  a  saucily  defiant  air,  was  coolly  draw- 
ing a  caricature  of  her  wrathful  instructress.  Happily  for 
both  parties,  the  entrance  of  Isabel  caused  a  diversion.  In 
former  days  she  had  been  one  of  the  favourite  pupils  of 
Madame,  who  was  so  delighted  to  see  her  again  that  she  forgot 
her  anger,  and  Lisa  sat  by  in  great  contentment,  inwardly 
thanking  her  cousin  for  the  pleasant  interruption  she  had 
made. 

Isabel  was  Mrs  Tennent's  eldest  daughter,  and  five  or  six 
years  older  than  her  sister  Elinor,  whom  she  resembled  strongly 


Isabel's  retttrK".  65 

in  face  and  figure,  although  she  was  far  more  womanly  and  self- 
possessed  in  manner.  Like  her,  too,  she  was  ordinarily  very 
quiet;  but  it  was  not  with  her  as  with  Elinor,  the  quiet  of 
indolence,  but  of  thought  and  reflection.  No  one  could  look  at 
Isabel,  at  her  intellectual  face  and  expressive  eye,  without  seeing 
that  she  was  talented  in  no  ordinary  degree ;  and  she  was  not 
only  clever  naturally,  but  had  read  much,  and  studied  for  the 
love  of  study ;  her  knowledge  of  languages,  music,  and 
painting  was  wonderful.  As  the  eldest,  and  for  some  time  the 
only  child  of  the  second  family,  she  had  been  a  great  pet  with 
her  half-brother  and  sister,  w^ho  were  proud  of  her  cleverness ; 
with  Percy  more  especially  was  she  a  favourite;  and  as  she 
grew  older,  he  had  had  no  greater  pleasure  than  that  of 
encouraging  her  talents  in  every  possible  way.  Although  he 
had  left  home  while  she  was  still  a  child,  his  influence  had  not 
gone  with  him ;  he  had  never  forgotten  the  sister  of  whom  he 
had  been  so  proud ;  nor  had  she  on  her  side  forgotten  the 
brother  whose  interest  in  all  she  did  and  cared  for  had  made 
her  occupations  and  pleasures  doubly  pleasant.  They  had  cor- 
responded constantly,  and  when  after  long  years  of  absence  he 
had  returned  to  England,  shortly  before  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Russian  war,  his  visit  had  been  to  her  a  time  of  absorbing, 
though  of  undemonstrative  delight.  Undemonstrative,  indeed, 
she  always  was,  and  not  less  so  now  than  ever. 

Lisa  saw  her  afterwards  in  the  green  walk  with  Percy,  deep 
in  conversation,  but  pacing  by  his  side  soberly  and  quietly ; 
and  when  she  met  her  later  in  the  drawing-room,  she  was  seated 
by  her  mother,  discussing  home  news  in  a  very  matter-of-fact 
way.  Lisa's  attention,  however,  was  diverted  from  her  then, 
for  there  were  others  in  the  room  who  possessed  greater  interest 
for  her  at  that  moment.  Janet  Darrell  was  there,  and  at  a 
window  near  stood  her  brother  Cunninghame  Thorpe  talking 
to  Elinor,  who,  in  the  description  she  had  once  given  of  him, 
had  by  no  means  overrated  his  personal  attractions. 

He  was  very  handsome ;  handsomer,  Lisa  thought,  than  any 
one  she  had  ever  seen ;  and  the  marked  contrast  between  him 
and  her  cousin  Percy  was  very  striking.  The  latter,  perhaps, 
had  never  appeared  so  plain  to  her  as  he  did  at  that  moment ; 
she  had  forgotten,  indeed,  how  very  plain  he  was ;  and  it  was 
disagreeable  to  be  reminded  of  it  now.  His  dark,  thoughtful 
face  looked  almost  gloomy  beside  that  of  his  gay,  animated 
companion,  who  was  evidently  on  the  best  of  terms  with  himself 


66  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

and  perfectly  aware  of  his  own  fascinations.  But  Lisa  was  too 
simple  to  detect,  in  such  a  brief  survey,  the  symptoms  of  self- 
consciousness  which  betrayed  themselves  in  his  *  get-up'  and 
attitude ;  and  her  hasty  glance  at  him  was  one  of  great  admiration 
— admiration  which  he  seemed  to  return  with  interest,  when,  as 
she  was  crossing  the  room  to  speak  to  her  sister,  he  for  the  first 
time  caught  sight  of  her. 

^  By  Jove,  what  a  pretty  girl !  Who  is  she,  and  where  on 
earth  did  she  spring  from?'  was  his  eager  exclamation;  and 
the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered  made  Percy  look  as  if  he 
would  have  had  no  objection  to  knock  him  down.  He  vouch- 
safed no  reply  to  the  question.  It  was  answered,  however,  by 
Janet. 

*  Little  Lisa  Kennedy,  I  declare  !  Why,  Lisa,  who  would 
have  thought  it ! '  holding  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke.  '  How 
you  have  grown !  I  should  hardly  have  known  you  again,  only 
your  face  is  not  much  altered.  When  do  you  mean  to  look  less 
like  a  child,  I  wonder  1  You  are  growing  up  now,  and  ought  to 
be  more  womanly.' 

'  Lisa  has  no  wish  to  do  that,'  remarked  Isabel.  *  Unless  she 
is  very  much  altered,  you  could  not,  in  her  opinion,  pay  her  a 
greater  compliment  than  to  tell  her  she  has  nothing  of  the 
woman  about  her.' 

Lisa  was  silent ;  but  something  in  the  tone  annoyed  her,  and 
the  colour  mounted  to  her  face. 

She  was  glad  that  Mr  Thorpe,  coming  up,  asked  to  be  intro- 
duced to  her ;  and  as  he  remained  by  her  side  for  some  time,  she 
forgot  her  annoyance,  and  found  him  so  agreeable,  that  she  was 
sorry  when  her  aunt  broke  off  the  conversation  by  sending  her 
away  on  some  errand.  She  confided  to  Mary  afterwards  the 
favourable  impression  he  had  made  upon  her. 

'  He 's  so  very  pleasant,'  she  said,  *  and  so  amusing  !  And  he 
was  telling  me  such  a  very  entertaining  story,  when  Aunt  Helen 
sent  me  away  !  It  was  very  provoking  of  her,  for  I  wanted  to 
hear  the  end  of  it.  I  like  hearing  him  talk,  he  has  so  much  to 
say.     And  how  handsome  he  is,  isn't  he  ? ' 

*  Very,'  said  Mary,  smiling  a  little.  *  Very  handsome,  indeed. 
And  yet,  Lisa,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  quite  like  his  face.  I  have 
seen  others  that  I  like  better.' 

*  Have  you  ? '  Lisa  said,  rather  absently.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  difference  between  Mr  Thorpe  and  her  cousin  Percy,  and 
the  thought  appeared  to  change  the  current  of  her  ideas,  for,- 


ISABEL'S  RETURN.  67 

after  a  pause,  she  said,  ^  Percy  is  very  fond  of  Isabel,  Mary.  He 
seems  to  care  for  her  almost  more  than  he  does  for  you.  It  is 
very  strange.' 

*  Is  it  ?  No,  I  don't  think  so.  She  is  so  clever,  and  can  enter 
into  so  many  things  that  I  know  nothing  about.  And  he  helped 
stj  much  to  make  her  what  she  is,  that  it  is  only  natural  he 
should  be  proud  of  her.' 

*  But,  Mary,  you  are  his  own  sister,  and  she  is  not.  It  don't 
seem  right  that  he  should  care  for  her  more  than  he  does  for 
you.     I  don't  like  it.' 

She  spoke  in  her  hasty  way,  and  Mary  laughed. 

*  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  He  cares  for  me  as  much  as  he 
does  for  Isabel,  only  it  is  in  a  different  way.  Surely,  Lisa  dear, 
you  are  not  going  to  try  and  make  me  jealous]'  she  added. 
*  That  would  be  very  absurd.  And  I  had  just  been  thinking 
how  pleasant  it  is  for  him  to  have  her  at  home.  They  are  so 
happy  when  they  are  together;  they  have  so  many  things  in 
common,  and  can  talk  of  all  sorts  of  things  that  I  don't  under- 
stand.    I  am  not  clever,  you  know ;  I  never  w^as.' 

Lisa  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  jumped  up. 

*  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  clever  or  not,'  she  said, 
throwing  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  bestowing  on  her  a  most 
impetuous  embrace.  *  But  I  'm  quite  sure  of  one  thing,  and 
that  is,  that  if  all  people  that  are  not  clever  are  like  you,  I  like 
them  a  great  deal  better  than  those  who  are — that's  all.' 

And  away  she  went. 

*  Where  are  you  going,  Percy  1 '  she  said,  as  she  happened  to 
meet  him  on  the  stairs  one  morning  a  few  days  afterwards — 
days  during  which  she  had  seen  but  little  of  him,  his  time 
having  been  claimed  almost  incessantly  by  Isabel.  *  Where  are 
you  going  ?  And  what  are  those  things  you  have  in  your  hand  ? 
Drawings  f 

'No,  illuminations.'  And  he  spread  them  out  on  the  wide 
seat  of  the  window  on  the  landing  where  they  had  met.  '  They 
are  some  of  Isabel's — of  her  own  designing,  and  very  good  too. 
I  was  wishing  you  to  see  them.'  And  he  showed  a  succession  of 
beautifully-illuminated  wreaths  and  crosses,  leaves,  flowers,  and 
berries,  while  Lisa  looked  on  in  a  state  of  bewildered  admira- 
tion. 

*  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  she  did  all  those  herself  ?  How 
exquisite  they  are !  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  any,  even  for  sale, 
so  beautiful.     It  must  be  very  difficult,  isn't  it  V 


68  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

'  Not  the  mechanical  part ;  but  of  course  for  designing  thefd 
must  be  both  taste  and  talent.  And  Isabel  has  both.  These 
are  not  her  best,  though,  by  any  means.  She  has  some  which 
are  much  more  elaborate ;  you  must  come  and  see  them.  I 
don't  believe  you  have  seen  any  of  her  last  paintings  either.' 

*  I  have  scarcely  seen  any  of  her  paintings,'  Lisa  said,  a  little 
dolefully,  *  except  those  that  are  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
never  lets  me  go  into  her  room.  I  'm  very  sorry,  for  I  We  often 
wanted  to  look  at  her  things.' 

'  Then  you  must  come  now,'  Percy  said,  smiling  :  *  I  am  going 
there  myself,  and  you  must  come  with  me.     She  will  like  it.' 

*  I  don't  think  she  will,'  Lisa  said,  hanging  back,  doubtfully ; 
but  he  drew  her  on,  and  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  hardly  waiting 
for  the  ceremony  of  knocking,  he  opened  the  door  of  his  sister  s 
room. 

It  was  a  curious  place  that  room  of  Isabel's,  and  had  been 
fitted  up  as  a  sort  of  studio  by  Mrs  Tennent,  who  was  very  proud 
of  her  daughter's  talents.  An  easel  stood  near  the  window,  and 
the  walls  were  hung  with  drawings  and  paintings  in  all  stages  of 
progression ;  while  other  things  lying  about  showed  that  her  taste 
lay  in  many  different  directions.  Cabinets  filled  with  curiosities 
of  natural  history  and  geological  specimens  which  she  had  col- 
lected and  arranged,  antique  ornaments  and  statuettes,  casts  in 
plaster  of  paris,  and  models  for  sculpture,  a  harp  and  a  guitar, 
were  some  of  the  most  conspicuous  objects  ;  and  the  tables  and 
chairs,  and  even  the  floor,  were  piled  with  books  and  manuscripts 
which  she  bad  pulled  down  from  their  shelves  as  she  wanted 
them  for  reference.  Lisa  stood  at  the  entrance  and  looked  with 
astonishment  at  the  curious  aspect  of  this  'private  den,'  into 
which  she  had  never  yet  found  admittance.  Nor  was  she  to  find 
it  now. 

*  Here,  Isabel,  I  'm  bringing  you  a  visitor,'  Percy  said.  *  Lisa 
tells  me  she  has  never  been  here  before,  and  she  has  a  great 
desire  to  see  your  paintings.     May  we  come  in  V 

Isabel  was  standing  at  her  easel  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  copy 
of  an  *  Ecce  Homo,'  by  Guercino,  which  lay  before  her,  and  as 
she  did  not  turn  when  her  brother  spoke,  she  was  not  aware  that 
Lisa  herself  was  already  at  the  door. 

*  Nonsense,  Percy,  don't  bring  that  child  here,'  she  exclaimed 
hastily.  *  She  knows  nothing  about  these  things.  Pray  don't 
let  her  come  and  interfere  with  us.' 

Percy's  face   changed  :    there   was   a   shade   upon   it  for   a 


ISABEL  S  EETURN.  69 

moment,  but  it  disappeared,  and  he  turned  to  Lisa  with  a 
smile. 

*  Never  mind  ;  she  is  so  deep  in  her  studies  tbat  she  does  not 
know  what  she  is  saying.  You  must  not  wait  for  an  invitation, 
you  see ;  you  must  come  in  without  one.  She  '11  soon  find  how 
nearly  your  tastes  and  hers  are  alike.' 

But  Lisa  drew  back,  her  face  crimson,  her  eyes  flashing. 
*]Sro,  thank  you,  I  never  go  where  I'm  not  wanted.' 
She  pulled  her  hand  from  his,  and  turning,  flew  down-stairs ; 
he  could  not  stop  her ;  she  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment.  She 
rushed  off  to  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  and  there,  crouching 
down  between  some  raspberry  bushes,  she  lay  hidden  in  a  very 
disconsolate  fit ;  and  although  she  saw  her  cousin  walking  about 
in  search  of  her,  and  knew  he  was  wanting  her  to  come  out,  she 
was  too  angry  and  miserable  to  show  herself,  and  for  a  long  time 
had  a  hard  fight  to  keep  back  the  tears  Avhich  would  rise  to  her 
eyes. 

*  I  knew  how  it  would  be,'  she  said  to  herself ;  '  she  ivoiit 
like  me ;  she  thinks  me  good  for  nothing,  and  won't  believe  I 
want  to  be  better.  And  she  will  make  him  think  so  too,  and 
then  he  won't  care  for  me  any  more.  I  don't  believe  he  does 
now,  indeed  ;  I  don't  think  he  cares  for  me  half  as  much  as  he 
did  two  or  three  days  ago.'  But  although  she  said  this  to  her- 
self, Lisa  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  for  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  did  not  believe  her  own  assertion.  *Well,  I  won't 
care  anything  about  him  then.  He  and  Isabel  may  do  as  they 
like,  and  I  won't  trouble  myself  about  them.  They  shan't 
think  I'm  making  myself  miserable.' 

And  with  this  determination  she  dried  her  eyes  ;  and  growing 
tired  of  doing  nothing,  and  of  having  only  the  raspberry  bushes 
for  companions,  left  her  hiding-place,  and  betook  herself  to  some 
employment.  She  did  not  see  Percy  again  until  the  afternoon, 
when,  as  she  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  window  in  Mary's 
room  reading,  he  opened  the  door. 

*  Lisa,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  minute.' 

*  Can't  come/  she  said,  without  looking  up  from  her  book. 

*  Not  for  one  minute  ?  1  won't  keep  you,  and  I  'm  going  out 
directly.     I  shall  not  be  back  again  this  evening.' 

*  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow,  then.     I  'm  busy  now.' 

*  Why,  my  dear  Lisa,  you  are  not  doing  anything  in  parti- 
cular,' said  Mary ;  *  you  can  spare  a  minute  or  two,  surely  ! ' 

'  No,  Mary  dear,  I  can't,  it's  quite  impossible!'  jumping  up  as 


70  ATHERSTONE  PEIORY. 

she  Spoke,  and  walking  off  to  the  piano ;  '  I  have  my  music  to 
practise  before  tea.  I  know  what  Percy's  minutes  are  when  he 
begins  to  talk.'  She  closed  the  argument  by  dashing  into  a 
very  noisy  polka,  and  Percy  was  obliged  to  leave  the  room. 

But  he  did  not  find  the  opportunity  he  wanted  for  speaking 
to  her  even  on  the  following  day.  She  kept  out  of  his  reach, 
and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  stopping  her  ears 
when  he  began  to  say  anything,  and  dancing  off  to  shut  herself 
up  in  her  own  room  when  she  found  no  other  way  of  silencing 
him.  Nor  would  she  go  on  with  any  of  the  occupations  which 
lately  had  given  her  so  much  pleasure.  Singing,  which  she  had 
begun  to  practise  diligently  under  Mary's  superintendence  on 
purpose  to  please  him,  was  now  neglected  :  it  made  her  throat 
ache,  she  said.  The  books,  too,  which  he  had  lent  her  to  read, 
were  thrown  aside,  and  her  drawings  were  thrust  into  a  corner 
with  a  quantity  of  waste  paper  and  other  rubbish. 

*  Where  is  that  last  one  you  were  doing,  Lisa  ? '  he  asked  one 
day.  '  You  must  have  finished  it  by  this  time.  Will  you  let 
me  look  at  it  ? ' 

^  JSTo  ;  it 's  not  done,'  she  said  carelessly  ;  '  and  I  don't  intend 
to  finish  it.  I  'm  tired  of  drawing  now ;  it 's  stupid  work.  I 
mean  to  give  it  up.  Now  that  I  can  run  about  again^  I  like 
that  better  than  sitting  still.  We  are  all  going  over  to  Cope- 
lands  this  afternoon  to  make  hay,  and  Mr  Thorpe  is  coming 
with  us.     That  will  be  much  greater  fun.* 

Percy  was  silent,  but  she  saw  that  she  had  vexed  him,  and 
went  away  with  a  smile  upon  her  face.  It  was  so  amusing  to 
think  that  she — such  a  little  thing  as  she  was — could  vex  a 
great  tall  man  like  him  ;  and  so  silly,  too,  of  him  to  be  vexed  at 
anything  she  could  do,  that  she  felt  quite  proud.  Never  had 
she  been  so  capricious,  perverse  and  tormenting  as  she  was 
during  the  few  days  that  followed  j  and  Percy,  who  had  begun 
to  be  aware  how  much  his  happiness  was  bound  up  in  her,  felt 
the  change  bitterly.  She  had  no  idea  how  seriously  he  was 
annoyed  by  her  wilfulness  and  caprice,  or  she  would  have  con- 
sidered twice,  perhaps,  before  giving  so  much  pain  to  one  whom 
she  really  liked.  It  was  mere  thoughtlessness  on  her  part ;  she 
liked  the  amusement  of  the  thing ;  she  liked  to  see  him  look 
grave  and  vexed,  and  to  think  she  had  the  power  of  making  him 
so.  And  it  was  a  gratification  which  she  had  very  often  at  that 
time. 


PENITENCE.  71 

CHAPTER  X. 

PJCXITENCE. 

But  Lisa's  wayward  fit,  after  lasting  a  few  days,  was  brought  to 
an  end  by  a  little  incident  that  took  place  one  evening  in  Mr 
Pye's  meadows.  She  had  been  spending  the  afternoon  there, 
and  had  been  amusing  herself  in  the  erection  of  an  enormous 
hay-cock,  when  she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  had  lost  a 
very  pretty  little  silk  handkerchief  which  Mary  had  given  her. 
It  had  been  only  loosely  tied  round  her  neck,  and  of  course 
had  slipped  off  when  she  was  too  busy  to  notice  her  loss. 

'  Oh,  my  handkerchief !  Where  is  it  gone  ?  Do  help  me  to 
find  it,  Mr  Thorpe,'  to  that  gentleman,  who  happened  to  come 
up  just  then  with  Percy.     *  I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  anything.' 

Mr  Thorpe  obeyed  with  all  alacrity,  beginning  by  demolishing 
the  hay-cock,  in  which  it  was  most  lilcely  to  be  secreted,  and 
Percy  assisted  in  the  search,  while  she  stood  by  lamenting,  or 
rather  pretending  to  do  so,  for  after  a  minute  or  two  she  seemed 
to  forget  that  she  cared  about  it,  and  was  quite  taken  up  with 
watching  her  cousin,  whose  blind  way  of  carrying  on  the  hunt 
amused  her  exceedingly.  She  had  often  laughed  at  him  for  *  that 
odd  habit  he  had  of  screwing  up  his  eyes,  as  if  he  thought  he  could 
see  better  when  they  were  shut,'  though  she  had  never  gone  so  far 
as  to  let  him  overhear  her  remarks.  But  she  was  now  in  one  of 
her  most  reckless  moods,  which  made  her  not  only  forget  common 
politeness,  but  a  good  deal  more ;  and  after  observing  him  for 
some  minutes  with  great  amusement,  she  next  twisted  up  a  hay- 
stalk  in  the  shape  of  an  eye-glass,  and  walked  about  after  him, 
picking  up  little  things  which  she  frowned  over  and  subjected 
to  a  minute  inspection,  greatly  to  the  amusement  of  Mr  TJaorpe. 
For  some  time  Percy  was  not  aware  of  what  she  was  doing,  but 
his  suspicions  were  awakened  at  last  in  consequence  of  one  or 
two  smothered  bursts  of  laughter  from  Susan  and  Constance,  and, 
happening  once  to  turn  rather  suddenly,  he  caught  Lisa  with  the 
pretended  glass  to  her  eye,  in  the  act  of  exchanging  a  glance  of 
ill-suppressed  merriment  with  Mr  Thorpe.  It  was  not  what  he 
had  expected.  That  he  was  not  improved  by  his  near-sighted- 
ness he  knew  well  enough,  and  if  she  alone  had  chosen  to 
laugh  at  him  on  that  account,  he  would  have  thought  nothing  of 
it;  but  that  she  should  amuse  herself  at  his  expense  with  a 


72  ATHERSTOKE  PRIORY. 

comparative  stranger  was  what  he  had  not  looked  for,  and  Lisa 
no  sooner  met  his  eye  than  she  saw  she  had  gone  too  far ;  she 
saw  she  had  wounded  him  deeply,  and  all  her  wilful  recklessness 
vanished  in  a  moment.  She  was  miserable ;  she  would  have 
given  anything  to  tell  him  she  was  sorry — that  she  had  been 
thoughtless  and  rude,  but  would  never  be  so  again.  But  Mr 
Thorpe  was  standing  there,  and  she  could  not  speak.  She 
turned  away,  hot,  blinding  tears  in  her  eyes,  only  caring  that  no 
one  should  notice  her,  or  know  how  wretched  she  was.  1 

The  handkerchief  was  found.  After  a  long  search,  Percy 
discovered  it  in  some  hay  at  a  little  distance,  and  brought  it  to 
her  when  she  was  beginning  to  fear  she  had  quite  lost  it.  She 
took  it  in  silence ;  she  could  not  thank  him,  and,  tying  it  round 
her  neck  again,  walked  back  to  the  farm  feeling  more  miserable 
than  ever.  Mr  Thorpe  chose  to  keep  her  company,  and  she  saw 
no  more  of  her  cousin  till  late  that  evening,  when,  as  she  was 
passing  through  the  hall,  on  her  way  up-stairs,  she  heard  the 
house-door  open,  and  looking  round  saw  him  just  coming  in. 
She  had  thought  that  she  must  wait  till  morning  to  make  her 
confession — to  ask  him  to  forgive  her;  but  now  here  was  the 
opportunity  she  was  longing  for,  she  could  speak  to  him  at  once 
if  she  liked ;  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  looking  very  shy 
and  very  miserable,  she  walked  up  to  him. 

*  Percy,' — he  was  stooping  down,  but  started  as  she  spoke, 
and  looked  up, — Tercy,  I  was  very  rude  to  you  this  evening;  but 
won't  you  forgive  me  1  You  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am.'  Her 
lip  quivered,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  spoke. 

Percy's  face  brightened  strangely.  He  must  have  been  very 
different  from  what  he  was  if  he  could  have  resisted  such  an 
appeal.  He  forgot  his  annoyance  completely,  and  only  thought 
her  the  prettiest  and  most  lovable  little  creature  he  had  ever 
seen. 

'Never  mind,  Lisa,'  he  said  with  a  smile  ;  4t  was  foolish  of 
me  to  care  about  it.  I  might  have  known  better  than  to  take 
such  a  thing  amiss  from  you.  And  I  believe  I  am  awkward  at 
limes;  you  had  a  legitimate  excuse  for  your  amusement.' 

'  I  hadn't ;  it  was  all  my  naughtiness.  O  Percy  !  I  am  sorry. 
Won't  you  say  you  forgive  me  1  I  shall  never  be  happy  if  you 
don't.' 

*  Won't  you  1  Then,  pray,  be  happy  directly.  I  don't  think 
my  forgiveness  necessary ;  but  if  you  ask  for  it,  you  may  be  sure 
you  have  it.' 


PENITENCE.  73 

'Forain  For  everything?  For  it  isn't  only  to-night  I've 
been  so  bad  ;  it 's  all  this  week.  I  We  tormented  you,  and  done 
everything  I  could  to  vex  you,  because  I  was  angry  with  Isabel. 
Oh  dear,  I  wish  I  were  not  so  wicked  !  When  I  once  get  angry, 
I  don^t  know  what  I  do.  And  I  Ve  been  dreadfully  provok- 
ing to  you,  and  done  all  sorts  of  things  that  I  knew  you 
didn't  like.  I  'm  very  sorry  now.  I  think,  Percy,  please,  that 
if  you'll  forgive  me,  I'll  never  do  it  again.  I'll  try  and  be 
much  better.' 

'  My  dear  Lisa,  don't  look  so  penitent,'  he  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  a  laugh ;  ^  you  are  not  in  the  confessional,  nor  have  I  seen  any- 
thing of  the  *'  wickedness  "  you  talk  of.  I  am  sorry  Isabel  vexed 
you  so  much  the  other  day,  but  I  know  it  was  unintentionally 
she  did  it.  If  she  had  known  you  were  there,  she  w^ould  not  have 
said  what  she  did ;  she  wanted  me  to  tell  you  she  was  sorry,  and 
that  she  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  go  whenever  you  like.' 

*  Why  didn't  she  tell  me  so  herself,  then?'  thought  Lisa,  though 
she  did  not  say  so.  She  only  answered,  *  Never  mind  about  her, 
it 's  only  you  I  care  for ;  and  if  you  forgive  me,  and  will  forget 
how  bad  I've  been  the  last  few  days,  I  don't  want  anything 
else.  AVill  you  shake  hands  with  me,  please,  and  let  us  be  quite 
friends?' 

Percy  smiled  as  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  they  parted  on  most 
amicable  terms. 

*  I  've  brought  you  my  drawing  to  look  at,'  Lisa  said  the  next 
day.  '  It's  done  now, — I  worked  at  it  a  whole  hour  this  morning  ; 
and  I  don't  think  it 's  very  badly  done  either.  What  do  you 
say  ?  And,' — looking  at  him  with  a  mixture  half  of  fun,  half  of 
shyness, — ^  my  throat  is  well  again  ;  Mary  and  I  are  going  to  have 
some  singing  by  and  by.  I  think  you  may  as  well  come  and 
listen  to  us,  and  then  I  can  give  you  some  tea  afterwards.  You 
will  find  it  pleasanter  up-stairs  with  us  than  sitting  here  by 
yourself.' 

Her  naughtiness  and  caprice  were  gone  for  the  time ;  and, 
being  only  anxious  to  make  amends  for  her  late  waywardness, 
she  took  the  greatest  pains  to  please  him,  and  became  as  docile 
as  the  most  obedient  child.  And  he,  only  too  delighted  at  this 
new  change  for  the  better,  forgot  the  annoyances  of  the  past 
week — forgot  that  she  could  be  anything  but  what  she  then  was, 
and  thought  her  more  charming  than  ever.  How  often,  indeed, 
he  was  dreaming  of  her  when  he  ought  to  have  been  thinking  of 
other  things  would  have  been  hard  to  say,  but  if  Isabel's  com- 


74  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY.  ; 

plaints  at  that  time  of  his  frequent  distractions  were  to  be  be- ! 
lieved,  they  must  have  been  something  alarming.  They  certainly  \ 
gave  her  great  cause  for  dissatisfaction,  although  she  was  puzzled  \ 
to  account  for  them. 


CHAPTER  XL  •  I 

A  TALK,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 

One  afternoon  Lisa  was  busy  with  a  French  lesson  in  her  own  i 
room.  She  liked  to  take  her  books  there,  for  she  could  learnt 
better  when  alone,  and,  moreover,  she  was  fond  of  her  little  i 
closet.  The  great  charm  of  the  place  must  have  consisted  in  its : 
being  her  own,  for  there  was  nothing  else  to  make  it  attractive,  i 
It  was  very  small^  and  poorly  furnished.  The  floor,  with  the  j 
exception  of  one  narrow  strip  of  carpet,  was  bare  ;  the  walls  were  i 
unpapered,  and  the  bed  was  without  hangings.  A  little  chest  of  i 
drawers,  a  little  wash-hand  stand,  and  one  little  chair  made  up  ^ 
the  furniture,  and  not  much  taste  had  been  consulted  in  the  ; 
choice  of  these  articles.  Anything  would  do  for  Lisa,  said  Mrs  ] 
Tennent,  on  the  principle,  most  probably,  that  beggars  must  not  i 
be  choosers;  and  if  Lisa  thought  she  would  have  liked  some  things  \ 
different,  she  did  not  say  so,  and  consoled  herself  with  the  reflec- 1 
tion  that  the  place  was  her  own,  and  she  could  do  what  she  liked  j 
there.  And  if  the  room  did  look  rather  bare  sometimes,  in  the  i 
early  morning,  when  the  tapping  of  the  lime-tree  boughs  upon  | 
her  window  roused  her  from  her  slumbers  before  it  was  time  to  \ 
get  up,  she  did  not  mind  it,  for  she  could  hear  the  first  notes  of 
the  birds  in  the  garden,  and  see  the  sunlight  playing  on  the  green  \ 
leaves  as  the  breezes  stirred  them ;  and  these  sights  and  sounds  ] 
brought  thoughts  of  other  happy  things,  and  carried  her  from  her  i 
dingy  room  in  the  midst  of  a  crowded  town,  to  country  meadows  ] 
and  country  vfoods  far  away,  over  which  the  free  winds  were  ^ 
blowing,  and  where  wild-flowers  were  springing  and  green  boughs  i 
waving,  whose  beauty  would  never  be  soiled  by  the  dust  and  ] 
smoke  that  so  soon  darkened  the  Priory  trees.  Now,  although -i 
it  was  only  the  end  of  June,  the  freshness  of  these  had  passed  ^^ 
away,  and  they  had  settled  down  into  the  sombre  aspect  which^' 


75 

they  always  wore  in  the  long,  hot  months.     Beautiful,  however, 

Lisa  thought  them,  for  they  were  old  friends — she  had  watched 

them  bud,  and  come  to  leaf,  and  fade,  for  many  and  many  a  year 

— and  familiar  things  have  always  a  beauty  of  their  own.     She 

liked  to  sit  and  look  up  into  their  deep  recesses — to  hear  the 

loud  humming  of  the  bees  among  their  flowers,  and  to  catch 

glimpses  of  blue  sky  between  their  leaves ;  and  she  liked  to  look 

beyond  them,  and  see  the  jackdaws  wheeling  round  the  tower  of 

the  old  Priory  Church,  whose  grey  massive  walls,  mantling  ivy, 

and  hourly  chimes  had  been  objects  of  the  deepest  interest  ever 

since  the  day  when,  as  a  little  child,  she  had  first  seen  and  heard 

them.     On  a  summers  day  like  the  present — when  the  glory 

that  was  haunting  the  country  penetrated  even  the  dusky  town ; 

when  the  sunshine  was  lying  in  a  golden  flood  upon  the  lawn, 

and  soft  airs  crept  by,  hardly  raising  the  leaves  as  they  passed ; 

\  when  there  was  a  perfect  chorus  of  insect  life  among  the  trees, 

i  and  the  stir  and  tumult  in  the  busy  streets  sounded  far  off  and 

I  indistinct — on  such  a  day  as  this  she  could  have  sat  for  hours  in 

I  the  dreamy  luxury  of  doing  nothing.     Perhaps  it  was  the  con- 

[  sciousness  that  she  had  been  indulging  too  long  in  this  luxury 

i  that  made  her  now  keep  her  eyes  fixed  so  resolutely  on  her  book, 

while  she  conned  the  long  piece  of  Kacine's  *  Mithridate '  which 

Madame  Picard  had  given  her  to  learn.     She  was  going  over 

her  lesson  very  diligently,  when  a  little  stone  alighting  on  the  page 

before  her  made  her  look  up.     Percy  was  standing  in  the  green 

walk  below. 

^  Come  down,  Lisa ;  I  want  you,'  he  said.     *  What  are  you 
doing  there  1 ' 

^  Learning  a  French  lesson  for  Madame,' — and  she  held  up  her 
book. 

*  Never  mind  the  French  !     Put  it  away  now,  I  want  you.' 
^  Why,  Percy,'  and  she  looked  very  much  astonished,  ^that 
isn't  like  you  !     You  always  tell  me  to  finish  my  work  before  I 
begin  to  amuse  myself.     Besides,  Mary  told  me  to  be  sure  and 

1  learn  this  before  I  did  anything  else.    I  must  do  it,  I  think' 

She  hesitated. 

'  Yes,  of  course ;  you  are  right.     Well,  come  when  you  are 
ready,  then ;  you  won't  be  long,  I  suppose  1 ' 

'  Not  very ;  I'll  make  haste.     But  what  do  you  w^ant  me  for? 
Anything  particular  1 ' 

'  I  '11  tell  you  when  you  come.     You  '11  find  me  at  the  bottom 
of  the  walk.'     A.nd  he  turned  away. 


76  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  I  wonder  what  it  isV  Lisa  thought.  '  Something  pleasant, 
I  am  sure;  for  I  saw  him  smiling.'  And  stopping  her  arts 
once  more,  she  pored  over  her  book  until  the  lesson  was  learnt, 
and  had  beqn  said  from  beginning  to  end  without  a  mistake ; 
then  dashing  the  volume  on  the  floor  (that  was  an  accident,  for 
she  meant  to  throw  it  on  the  bed),  away  she  went.  Her  foot 
was  strong  now,  and  she  took  her  accustomed  jump  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  and  then  flew  through  the  garden  door  into  the 
green  walk,  where,  true  to  his  promise,  she  found  Percy  waiting. 
She  danced  up  to  him. 

'  Here  I  am  !  I  've  done  at  last ;  and  very  glad  I  am.  And 
now  I  hope  you  have  some  pleasant  news  to  tell  me.  You 
look  as  if  you  had,  and  I  am  sure  I  want  something  to  refresh 
me  after  that  horrid  Eacine.  How  I  wish  that  man  had  never 
been  born  !  He 's  the  plague  of  my  life.  But  what  do  you 
want  me  for  1     Have  you  anything  to.  tell  me  1 ' 

*  Yes,  I  have.  Didn't  you  say  this  morning  that  you  would 
like  to  go  with  us  to  Hazeldean  next  Thursday  ] ' 

Lisa  looked  at  him  doubtfully — *  Yes,  I  did.  I  should  like 
it  beyond  everything.  But  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  know  I 
can  t  go.' 

*Do  you?  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Unless  you  wish 
to  stay  at  home,  I  don't  think  there  will  be  anything  to 
prevent  you.     Mrs  Tennent  has  no  objection  to  your  going.' 

'No  objection?  Aunt  Helen?  She  wall  let  me  go?'  Lisa 
exclaimed,  not  very  coherent  in  her  surprise  and  joy.  *  But 
no  ;  you  can't  be  in  earnest !  It  must  be  a  mistake  ! '  and 
her  face,  which  had  brightened  up  with  eagerness,  sobered 
down  again. 

*  No  ;  I  shouldn't  tell  you  such  a  thing,  Lisa,  if  you  were 
likely  to  be  disappointed.  It  is  not  a  mistake.  I  asked  Mrs 
Tennent  myself,  and  she  told  me  she  would  let  you.  You 
will  hear  it  frcm  her  by  and  by.' 

Lisa's  face  flushed  with  mingled  astonishment  and  delight. 
*  You  asked  her  ?  Then  it 's  your  doing,  Percy  ?  You  did  it 
because  you  knew  I  should  like  it ! ' 

He  smiled.  *  That  was  my  reason,  Lisa.  I  wasn't  wrong, 
was  I  ?     It  will  give  you  pleasure  to  go  ? ' 

'  Pleasure  !     Oh,  so    much ! ' — and   she    looked  up    at   him 
with  a  very  radiant  face.     *  I  am  so  glad,  so  pleased — so — oh  !  '\ 
I  don't  know  what — only  I  shall  like  it  so  very  much,     ^nd  it 
was   very  kind  of  you  to  get   me   the   pleasure.     I   wonder, 


A  TALK,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT*  77 

though,   what   made   you   think    of  it— why,   indeed,    you    so 
often  think  of  what  will  please  meV 

'Do  1  *? '  he  said,  *  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Do  you  think  it 
so  very  strange,  though,  that  any  one  should  wish  to  pleas6 
you  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know.  I  don^b  fancy  many  people  do.  Mary  does, 
but  she  couldn't  have  done  such  a  thing  as  this  if  she  had 
wished  it  ever  so  much.  Aunt  Helen  would  not  have  let 
me  go  if  she  had  asked.  But,  oh  dear !  I  can  hardly  believe 
it.  Fancy  seeing  the  castle  and  the  beautiful  woods  there, 
and  dining  out  of  doors,  and  dancing  in  the  evening  !  How 
delightful  it  will  be  !  Percy,  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  asking  for  me.  But  you  are  always  doing  things  for  me ; 
is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you*? — nothing  that  will  give 
you  a  little  pleasure  1 ' 

*  And  you  think  it  is  not  pleasure  enough,  then,  to  see  you 
pleased,  Lisa  1 ' 

*  Oh  no,  I  don't.  I  know  you  like  to  please  me,  or  you 
wouldn't  take  so  much  trouble  to  do  it.     But ' 

*  But  you  think  so  much  of  a  little,  that  you  feel  quite 
oppressed  by  the  amount  of  gratitude  that  is  burdening  you. 
Well,  you  shall  pay  me  if  you  like,  Lisa  ;  you  shall  give 
me  a  great  pleasure.' 

*  Yes.     What  is  it  T  with  great  eagerness. 

*  Will  you  keep  two  dances  for  me  on  Thursday  ? ' 

Lisa  looked  very  much  amused.  *  To  be  sure  I  will ;  aa 
many  as  you  like.  But  I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  danc- 
ing.' 

'  Didn't  you  ?  It  depends  on  my  partner.  I  don't  care  to 
dance  with  everybody;  but  when  I  know  and  like  a  person, 
it  is  very  different.  Don't  forget  you  are  engaged  for  the  first 
two.' 

*  No,  I  won't ;  but,  as  far  as  that  goes,  I  could  dance  with 
you  the  whole  evening,  for  nobody  else  is  likely  to  ask  me.' 

*  Are  they  not  1 '  he  said.  *  You  will  not  have  more  difficulty 
in  getting  partners,  I  suppose,  than  any  one  else.' 

Lisa  shook  her  head.  *  I  shall  be  so  much  younger  than 
any  one  else,'  she  said,  *  and  I  don't  know  the  people.  There 
is  Mr  Watts,  to  be  sure ;  perhaps  he  may  ask  me  :  and — Mr 
Thorpe — oh  !  I  had  forgotten  him.' 

^  It  would  be  much  pleasanter ;  I  should  enjoy  it  a  good 
deal  more  if  they  were  not  here,'  she  said,  after  a  pause. 


78  '  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

^Tliey!     Who  are  they  ?^ 

'  Mr  Thorpe,  and — and  Isabel.  Percy,  I  am  very  sorry, 
but  I  am  sure  she  will  never  like  me.  It's  something  in 
myself,  I  know,  but  I  can't  help  it.  She  makes  me  angry. 
I  was  very  angry  last  night,'  alluding  to  something  that  had 
passed  the  day  before.     *  You  saw  it,  I  suppose  1 ' 

*  I  saw  you  did  not  like  what  she  said.  But  I  think  you 
misunderstood  her,  Lisa.     She  did  not  intend  to  vex  you.' 

Lisa  put  up  her  shoulder  a  little  pettishly;  but  after  a 
moment  she  said  humbly,  *I  was  wrong,  I  know;  I  thought 
so  afterwards.  And,' — with  a  sigh — '  I  suppose  what  she  said 
was  true.  I  ought  to  take  a  great  deal  more  pains  about  many 
things  than  I  do.     You  think  so  too,  don't  you  1 ' 

*  I  do,  Lisa,*  he  said  frankly ;  '  I  think  it  a  great  pity  you 
don't  pay  more  attention  to  some  of  the  little  things  which 
make  up  a  large  part  of  a  woman's  duties.  It  is  a  woman's 
business,  is  it  not,  to  make  home  as  pleasant  as  possible ;  and 
how  can  she  do  that  if  she  does  not  make  herself  attractive, 
by  cultivating  every  gift  she  has  ]  Let  it  be  beauty,  or  talents, 
or  pleasing  manners,  she  may  be  quite  sure  it  has  been  given 
her  for  some  good  purpose,  and  that  she  is  bound  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  If  she  does  not  do  so,  if  she  takes  no  trouble 
to  give  pleasure  to  those  about  her  by  studying  the  little 
things — the  little  elegancies  that  make  all  the  difference  in 
home  life — she  is  not  doing  her  duty.  She  is  wasting  the 
good  things  that  have  been  given  her.' 

Lisa  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes ;  she  was  looking  rather 
surprised.  *  You  think,  then,  that  women  ought  to  make  a 
great  deal  of  themselves,  and  of  everything  they  have  ?  That 
would  make  them  very  vain,  wouldn't  it  ] ' 

*  Why  should  it,  if  it  is  done  from  a  right  motive  ?  The 
thing  is,  that  so  many  women  are  not  content  with  making 
themselves  as  pretty  and  agreeable  as  they  can  in  their  own 
homes;  they  go  out  to  look  for  admiration  from  strangers. 
They  will  spend  a  fortune  in  dressing  to  go  into  society,  but 
anything  is  good  enough  for  home,  where  there  is  only  a 
brother  or  a  husband  to  see  them.  That  comes  from  vanity, 
if  you  like,  Lisa ;  but  a  woman  who  takes  trouble  to  make 
herself  look  nice  for  those  she  loves,  will  not  be  vain,  you 
may  be  quite  sure.' 

*  No,  I  shouldn't  think  she  would.  But  then  a  great  many 
women  can't  do  as  they  like ;  perhaps  they  haven't  the  money 


A  TALK,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  79 

to  make  themselves  look  as  nice  as  they  would  if  they  were 
richer.' 

^  Very  likely  not ;  there  are  a  great  many  of  course  in  that 
case ;  but  I  was  talking  of  those  who  have  the  means.  If  people 
are  able  to  spend  so  much  when  they  go  out,  let  them  spare  a 
little  for  home  too ;  and  if  they  have  not  enough  for  both,  let 
home  come  first,  I  say.  But,  after  all,  it  is  not  so  much  what 
they  spend,  as  how  they  spend  it ;  and  taste  and  care  will  make  a 
woman  look  well  dressed  on  very  little.  And  I  never  like  to  see 
any  one  without  that  care,  for  I  think  she  can  be  doing  little 
towards  making  her  home  pleasant.' 

Lisa  was  silent  again  ;  she  stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  pulling 
to  pieces  some  flowers  which  she  had  gathered  as  they  walked. 
There  was  a  deep  blush  on  her  face ;  and  when  she  looked  up  at 
last,  it  was  with  some  embarrassment. 

*  I  am  very  sorry,  Percy.  I  never  thought  about  these  things 
before.  Of  course,  I  knew  I  was  careless,  and  that  I  ought  to 
be  neat  and  take  pains  about  a  great  many  things  that  I  didn't ; 
but  still  it  never  came  into  my  head  it  would  make  so  much 
difference,  or  that  I  was  not  doing  my  duty  at  home.  And 
you  say  you  don't  like  any  one  who  does  not  do  that.  I  'm  very 
sorry.' 

'  My  dear  Lisa,  I  didn't  mean  that  for  you ;  you  must  not 
think  so.  I  said  "  a  woman,"  and  although,' — with  a  smile, — *  I 
suppose  you  can  lay  claim  to  the  title  in  one  way,  yet  you  are 
young  enough  to  make  yourself  what  you  like ;  and,  from  what 
I  know  of  you,  I  am  quite  sure  that  what  you  will  like  will  be 
to  make  yourself  everything  a  woman  ought  to  be.  No  one 
would  think  of  judging  you  at  present  as  they  would  a  grown-up 
person.  A  year  or  two,  you  will  find,  will  make  a  great  differ- 
ence to  you  in  many  ways.' 

'  Yes,'  a  little  doubtfully.  ^  I  needn't  wait  a  year  or  two, 
though,  to  make  a  difference  in  one  way ; '  and  she  glanced  at 
her  dress.  '  I  shall  not  be  much  older  to-morrow  than  to-day, 
but  you  shall  not  see  me  so  untidy  again.  I  can't  help  it  if  my 
things  are  not  so  pretty  as  I  should  like,  because  I  don't  choose 
them  myself;  but  still  I  can  put  them  on  properly,  and  I  can 
make  my  collars  look  nice.  I  can  plait  my  hair,  too,  as  I  do 
Mary's  sometimes;  and  you  said  once  when  I  had  done  it, 
how  well  it  looked,  and  you  wished  I  would  do  mine  the  same 
way.' 

*  Yes,  I  remember.    You  have  such  beautiful  hair,  Lisa.'     He 


80  ATnERSTOHE  PRIORr. 

said  it  gravely,  as  if  he  were  stating  a  fact,  not  paying  a  com- 
pliment ;  nor  did  slie  take  it  as  one,  though  she  looked  very 
much  pleased. 

*  I  am  so  glad  you  like  it ! '  she  said  simply. 

*  Yes,  I  like  it  better  than  any  I  have  ever  seen ;  that  shade 
of  golden  brown  is  so  very  uncommon.  I  recollect  noticing 
it  the  first  night  I  came  home.  You  were  sitting  talking  to 
Arthur,  I  remember,  for  a  long  time,  and  the  light  from  the 
lamp  was  on  your  head.  You  looked  very  bright  that  even- 
ing, Lisa;  you  made  a  very  pretty  picture,'  he  added,  with  a 
smile. 

Lisa  half  smiled  too,  but  her  colour  rose.  The  thought  of 
that  evening,  and  of  all  the  foolish  things  she  had  then  said,  was 
not  very  pleasant,  and  she  would  have  been  very  glad  to  forget 
it  entirely. 

She  went  away  now  full  of  plans  for  carrying  out  her  new 
resolutions ;  and  any  one  who  on  the  following  morning  had  seen 
the  earnestness  with  which  she  set  to  work  to  make  the  most  of 
her  simple  dress,  would  have  smiled  at  the  alteration  which  a 
few  hours  had  elBfected  in  her  ideas.  Not  a  hair  now  was  out  of 
its  place,  and  every  plait  was  carefully  arranged  (she  was  so  glad 
Percy  liked  her  hair,  she  wondered  whether  he  liked  anything 
else  about  her  too),  and  then  clean  collar  and  cuffs  were  put  on, 
and  a  waist-band  hunted  up  from  an  indescribable  wilderness  of 
rubbish  in  one  of  her  drawers ;  and  when  her  toilet  was  com- 
pleted she  surveyed  herself  with  much  satisfaction  in  the  cracked 
looking-glass.  She  really  did  look  very  nice,  there  was  no  mistake 
about  it ;  the  only  thing  she  seemed  to  want  was  a  ribbon  for 
her  neck ;  but  sundry  calculations  of  the  money  allowed  her  for 
boots,  gloves,  &c.,  soon  proved  that  this  was  out  of  the  question  ; 
she  had  only  just  enough  to  carry  her  through  the  quarter,  with 
one  shilling  left  over,  which  she  meant  to  spend  on  a  little  tea 
for  an  old  woman  she  knew.  The  new  ribbon  must  be  given  up 
therefore.  After  all,  it  did  not  matter  very  much,  she  would  get 
a  few  flowers  instead ;  so  she  went  to  the  garden,  and  gathering 
a  moss-rose  bud  and  one  or  two  green  leaves,  fastened  them  in 
the  top  of  her  dress  in  the  place  of  a  brooch.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  on  her  return,  she  came  upon  Percy. 

'  Good  morning,  sir,'  she  said,  making  him  a  curtsey,  *  How 
do  I  look  to-day  ?  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  me.  Do  I  want 
anything  else  ? ' 

He  put  up  his  glass,  and  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot. 


A  TALKj  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  81 

'I  never  saw  anything  look  better,  Lisa/  lie  said,  gravely  ; 
*you  are  perfect.' 

Her  laugh  was  a  merry  one.  *  Perfect !  In  a  cotton  dress  ! 
'  0  Percy  !  I  'm  afraid  your  taste  is  not  perfect.  I  might  have 
something  twenty  times  prettier, 

'  Might  you?  Ah,  yes,  perhaps  so.  But  I  was  not  thinking 
of  your  dress.' 

'  ]^ot  thinking  of  my  dress  !  And  when  I  asked  you  par- 
ticularly to  look  at  it ! ' — and  she  made  a  pretence  of  pouting 
a  little.  *  What  were  you  thinking  of,  then  ?  The  best  way 
will  be  to  leave  you  to  yourself,  and  then  you  can  think  as 
much  as  you  please.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you  at 
all.     Good-bye.' 

'Lisa  has  gone  into  the  other  extreme  now,'  was  Isabel's 
remark  when  the  change  in  her  cousin's  dress  was  first  com- 
mented on.  '  From  untidiness  she  has  gone  into  coquettishness. 
I  hope  that  is  not  your  doing,  Percy ;  1  notice  she  pays  more 
attention  to  you  than  she  does  to  anybody  else.' 

*  Does  she  1 ' — and  the  change  in  her  brother's  face  did  not 
escape  Isabel's  quick  eye.  *  What  is  the  matter  with  her  dress  1 
I  thought  I  never  saw  her  look  better  than  she  did  at  break- 
fast.' 

'  No ;  and  she  knew  it.  I  felt  quite  sorry  I  had  ever  said  a 
word  to  her  about  being  careless ;  I  would  rather  she  had  re- 
mained so  all  her  life  than  see  her  turn  out  vain  and  giddy. 
We  want  no  more  of  that  kind  of  thing  in  our  family ;  we  know 
the  consequences  of  it  only  too  well.' 

Percy's  brow  clouded.  *  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you 
are  talking  about,  Isabel.  One  might  as  well  associate  such 
thoughts  with  the  child  just  born  as  with  Lisa.  She  is  as 
innocent  as  girl  can  be,  and  without  a  spark  of  vanity  in 
her.' 

*  Perhaps  so — at  present,'  Isabel  answered,  pointedly;  *but 
she  is  like  her  mother — too  like,  both  in  face  and  manner ;  I 
should  be  sorry  to  trust  the  happiness  of  any  one  I  cared  for  to 
her  keeping.' 


82  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODS. 

Thursday,  the  day  of  the  pic-nic,  came,  and  a  glorious  day  it 
was ;  fine  enough  to  satisfy  even  Lisa,  who  at  a  very  early  hour 
that  morning  was  in  the  garden,  to  investigate  the  appearance  of 
the  sky.  But  she  could  see  no  cause  to  fear  any  change  in  the 
lovely  weather  which  had  lately  set  in ;  and  although  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  mist  about,  and  the  sky  wore  rather  a  grey  and 
sombre  look,  she  knew  these  were  tokens  of  heat,  not  of  rain, 
and  that  they  would  pass  away  as  the  day  advanced.  And 
so  they  did ;  and  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  the  sun  had  come 
out  in  such  splendour,  that  the  only  apprehension  felt  by  any  one 
was  lest  it  should  be  too  hot  for  enjoyment.  But  Lisa  had  no 
such  forebodings.  Once  satisfied  that  there  was  no  fear  of  rain, 
she  was  convinced  that  everything  would  be  delightful;  and 
when  the  carriages  came  to  the  door,  her  spirits  were  at  a  pitch 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  all  petty  discomforts.  Not  even  the  dust 
and  heat  of  the  long  drive,  nor  a  back  seat  opposite  her  aunt  in 
a  barouche,  instead  of  going  with  Percy,  as  she  had  hoped,  in 
their  own  little  carriage,  could  at  all  affect  her  ;  and  she  contrived 
to  amuse  herself  so  well  with  her  own  observations  on  everything 
they  passed,  that  her  face  was  the  brightest  and  most  joyous- 
looking  of  all  the  party  that  met  in  what  had  once  been  the 
court-yard  of  Hazeldean  Castle. 

A  very  large  party  they  were.  She  did  not  know  a  quarter  of 
them,  and  would  have  felt  utterly  bewildered  by  the  number  of 
strange  faces,  had  not  Percy  taken  her  under  his  protection. 
Suggestions  for  an  exploring  expedition,  and  for  mounting  to  the 
top  of  one  of  the  towers,  were  soon  set  on  foot,  and  the  proposal 
finding  great  favour  among  the  younger  members  of  the  party, 
nearly  all  of  them  prepared  to  carry  it  out.  Large  as  the  num- 
bers were,  however,  who  began  the  scramble  to  the  top  of  the  old 
castle,  there  were  not  many  who  really  accomplished  it.  Only  a 
venturesome  few  gained  the  summit,  and  of  these  Lisa  was  one ; 
being  the  first,  indeed,  to  set  her  foot  on  the  highest  point  to  be 
reached ;  and  as  she  did  so,  she  burst  into  exclamations  of  wonder 
and  delight  at  the  prospect  that  lay  before  her. 

It  was  said  that  five  counties  were  to  be  seen  from  the  turrets 


THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODS.  83 

of  Hazeldean  Castle ;  and  certainly,  in  the  extensive  view  tliat 
stretched  away  in  the  dim  distance,  it  was  not  difficult  to  believe 
that  this  was  the  case ;  but  it  was  the  landscape  nearer  at  hand 
that  most  attracted  the  attention,  so  beautiful  did  it  look  in  the 
light  of  that  glorious  summer's  day.  Hill  and  valley,  green  woods 
heavy  with  their  July  foliage,  sparkling  streams  that  wound  their 
way  like  silver  threads  through  far-oif  meadows,  sunny  corn-fields, 
and  sloping  pasture-lands,  all  lay  basking  in  the  soft,  misty  haze 
of  noonday;  while  the  blue  sky  above  them,  dark  in  the  intensity 
of  its  unfathomable  depths,  was  unstreaked  by  a  single  cloud. 
When  her  first  burst  of  surprise  and  delight  was  over,  Lisa  could 
only  stand  and  look  with  feelings  that  took  away  the  power  of 
speaking ;  and  Percy,  who  was  by  her  side,  saw  the  tears  gather- 
ing in  her  eyes,  though  she  smiled  and  blushed  a  little  when  she 
found  he  had  noticed  them. 

*  I  can't  help  it,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice ;  *  beautiful  things 
always  make  me  cry  ;'  she  gave  a  long  sigh,  *  I  never  could  have 
fancied  anything  balf  as  lovely  as  this.' 

He  smiled,  but  made  no  answer ;  and  they  stood  together  in 
silence,  while  a  very  animated  discussion  was  going  on  between 
the  others,  who  had  not  much  attention  to  bestow  on  the  nearer 
view.  They  were  intent  upon  looking  out  for  certain  spires  and 
other  landmarks  by  which  the  different  counties  might  be  dis- 
tinguished ;  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  grumbling  at  the 
'  misty  light  of  the  day,'  and  ^  that  provoking  haze,'  which  pre- 
vented their  seeing  objects  that  ought  to  have  been  visible. 

'  Very  stupid  this,'  said  Cunninghame  Thorpe,  coming  up  to 
Lisa  and  speaking  in  an  injured  tone.  'I  had  no  idea  we 
shouldn't  see  more,  or  I  should  never  have  come  up  at  all.  By 
Jove,  what  a  pull !  And  for  nothing,  too  !  One  might  just  as 
well  have  stayed  at  the  bottom  for  what  there  is  to  look  at.'  He 
seated  himself  on  the  parapet  as  he  spoke,  and  looked  down  rather 
dolefully,  as  if  taking  in  all  the  toils  and  pains  of  descent,  while 
Lisa  regarded  him  with  some  amusement,  not  unmixed  with 
scorn. 

'  I  wonder,'  she  said, '  you  didn't  send  some  one  first  to  ascertain 
whether  the  view  were  worth  looking  at  before  you  ventured  so 
far  ;  it  would  have  saved  you  so  much  fatigue.  For  my  part,  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  coming  for  anything ;  it  is  far  more  beauti- 
ful than  I  could  ever  have  imagined.'  And  her  eye  went  back 
to  that  summer  scene  as  if  she  could  never  tire  of  gazing  at  it. 


84  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Cunninghame  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  not  quite 
sure  whether  she  were  in  earnest. 

^  You  have  never  been  abroad,  have  you  ^ '  he  asked.  '  No  ? 
ah,  I  thought  not ;  you  wouldn't  think  much  of  this  kind  of 
scenery  if  you  had.' 

*  Then  I  am  very  glad  I  never  have  ! ' 

^  But  why  1 '  asked  Mary,  who  was  standing  by,  *  why  shouldn't 
we  care  for  this  if  we  had  been  abroad  1  I  should  think  that 
seeing  foreign  scenery,  however  grand  it  may  be,  would  only 
make  one  appreciate  all  the  more  quiet  home  beauty  like  this. 
I  don't  know  why  we  are  to  despise  it  because  it  bears  no  re- 
semblance to  a  Swiss  or  Italian  view.' 

'  Oh,  no,  certainly  not ;  it 's  all  very  well  in  its  way ; 
but,'  with  a  half- suppressed  yawn,  ^  when  one  becomes  accus- 
tomed to  the  grand  and  sublime,  one  is  apt  to  find  this 
kind  of  scenery  rather  tame.  I  don't  fancy  you  would  meet 
with  many  people  to  care  for  it  who  had  been  among  the  Alps 
or  Pyrenees.' 

*  Do  you  think  so  ? '  said  Mary.  '  I  should  have  thought  it 
was  just  the  contrary.  Beauty  is  beauty  wherever  it  is ;  and 
when  the  eye  and  the  taste  have  been  cultivated  as  they 
ought  to  be  by  travelling,  one  would  think  they  would  be 
all  the  quicker  to  find  it  out  even  in  common  scenes,  where  it 
might  be  passed  over  by  those  who  have  never  been  trained  to 
look  for  it.' 

^  Perhaps  so.  I  daresay  you  are  right,'  said  Cunninghame  de- 
ferentially. '  But  I  am  afraid  the  experience  of  peoj)le  in  general 
would  go  against  your  argument.  However,  I  suppose  we  are 
going  down  now,  are  we  not  1  unless  any  one  has  a  fancy  for  be- 
ing baked  alive  up  here.  Allow  me  to  go  first  and  help  you 
down  those  steps,  they  are  not  safe  by  any  means.  I  think  if 
one  is  obliged  to  mount  these  kind  of  places,  they  ought  to  be 
kept  in  repair.  I  should  like  to  know  how  many  accidents 
happen  here  in  a  year.' 

No  accident  took  place  now,  in  spite  of  Mr  Thorpe's  evident 
anticipations  of  some  such  event,  and  the  descent  was  accom- 
plished in  perfect  safety  by  everybody.  Dinner  vras  the  next 
thing  to  be  thought  of,  and  was,  to  judge  from  appearances,  far 
more  appreciated  by  the  company  in  general  than  their  scram- 
bling expedition  had  been ;  while  Lisa,  much  as  she  had  enjoyed 
that,  thought  that  nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  dining 


THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODB.  85 

under  the  sliade  of  the  trees,  with  the  long  grass  waving  round 
them,  and  the  little  brook  that  rushed  at  their  feet  dancing  in 
the  sunshine.  It  was  everything  she  had  expected ;  the  single 
drawback  being  that  she  saw  nothing  of  Percy ;  Mr  Thorpe  hav- 
ing taken  Elinor  and  herself  under  his  care,  and  her  cousin  being 
engaged  with  some  one  else.  But  when  dinner  was  over,  and 
parties  were  forming  for  walking  or  amusing  themselves,  he 
came  up  to  her. 

^  You  will  like  to  see  something  of  the  woods,  Lisa,  won't  you] 
Will  you  go  to  the  dripping  welH' 

'  Yes,  oh,  yes ;  I  should  like  it  exceedingly,'  she  said,  spring- 
ing up  joyfully.  It  was  one  of  the  principal  places  to  be  visited 
at  Hazeldean,  and  she  had  often  heard  of  it.  She  would  like  to 
have  started  at  once,  but  it  appeared  that  Isabel  and  some  others 
wished  to  go  also,  and  as  Percy  knew  more  about  the  road  than 
any  one  else,  they  were  obliged  to  wait  while  several  young  ladies 
were  deciding  whether  they  w^ould  accompany  them  or  not. 
Most  of  them,  however,  settled  that  the  distance  was  too  great, 
and  the  party  was  reduced  at  length  to  themselves,  Janet,  Isabel, 
Elinor,  and  two  friends  of  the  latter  of  the  name  of  Eraser, 
merry,  good-natured  girls,  who  had  sat  near  Lisa  at  dinner,  and 
had  half  amused,  half  puzzled  her  by  the  nonsense  they  talked, 
and  the  bantering  conversation  they  had  carried  on  with  Mr 
Thorpe  whenever  they  could  get  his  attention.  A  great  deal  of 
what  they  had  said  had  been  utterly  unintelligible  to  her,  but 
she  had  been  entertained  even  when  she  could  not  understand 
the  drift  of  their  speeches ;  and  as  they  talked  to  her  also,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  be  sociable,  she  was  not  inclined  to  dislike 
them.  Cunninghame  and  another  gentleman  made  up  the  party, 
and  after  some  delay  they  all  set  out ;  Percy  and  herself,  how- 
ever, getting  on  so  much  faster  than  the  others,  that  they  were 
soon  far  in  advance  of  them ;  and  when  they  came  to  a  turn  in 
the  road,  she  made  a  pause, 

*  We  had  better  wait  for  them,  hadn't  we?'  she  said.  ^Look 
how  far  they  are  behind  ;  they  will  lose  their  way  altogether  if 
we  get  out  of  sight.' 

*They  can't  go  wrong  when  they  are  once  here,'  Percy  re- 
marked, clearing  the  brook  himself,  and  helping  her  to  cross 
the  slippery  stones  which  were  laid  down  in  the  middle  of  it. 
*  When  they  are  in  the  path  on  this  side  we  can  get  on  as  fast  as 
we  like ;  and  as  I  know  you  don't  mind  a  little  rough  walking, 


86  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

I  '11  take  you  by  a  short  cut,  which  will  be  much  pleasanter  than 
the  straight  road.     Shall  we  try  it  ?' 

*Yes,  if  you  like;  I  don't  mind  scrambling.  It's  not  so 
fatiguing  to  me  as  it  is  to  Mr  Thorpe.  "  By  Jove,  what  a  pull, 
and  all  for  nothing ! '' '  she  said,  imitating  his  tones.  *  Poor 
fellow !  I  pity  him  for  finding  things  such  a  trouble ;  he  must 
lose  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  But  I  think,  if  we  are  going 
to  have  much  scrambling,  I  had  better  fasten  up  my  dress; 
you  wouldn't  like  to  see  me  dancing  in  shreds  and  tatters  this 
evening.' 

*  No ;  indeed !  I  thought  you  told  me  the  other  day  you  had 
nothing  pretty  to  wear,  but  that  is  pretty  enough  for  anything. 
I  never  saw  anybody  look  better  than  you  do  now,  Lisa.' 

She  smiled.  '  I  am  glad  you  think  so ;  for  I  took  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  this  morning  to  make  myself  look  nice.  I  knew 
you  would  like  it.' 

She  fastened  up  her  dress,  and  they  sauntered  slowly  on  until 
they  saw  the  others  fairly  started  in  the  right  path,  when 
they  left  the  road  and  struck  off  into  the  deep  recesses  of 
the  wood.  Following  the  windings  of  the  brook,  sometimes  on 
the  high  ground  above  its  banks,  and  sometimes  on  the  very 
brink  of  its  waters,  they  wandered  on  under  the  tall  trees,  and 
through  shady  glades,  where  the  grass  grew  high,  and  the  fern 
and  the  foxglove  flourished  in  abundance ;  and  where  Lisa  went 
wild  with  the  luxuriant  loveliness  of  all  around.  She  ran  about, 
uttering  exclamations  of  delight  and  wonder  as  each  turn  re- 
vealed some  fresh  beauty,  and  every  step  showed  some  flower  or 
plant  she  had  never  met  with  before.  The  only  drawback  to 
her  pleasure  was  that  Mary  was  not  there  to  share  it  with 
her. 

'  What  a  pity  she  is  not  with  us !  How  I  wish  she  had 
come ! '  she  exclaimed,  when,  tired  at  last,  she  stopped  to  re- 
cover her  breath.  '  But  we  can  take  back  some  of  these  flowers 
for  her ;  she  will  be  so  pleased  with  them.  And — 0  Percy,  do 
get  me  some  of  that  beautiful  blue  flower  growing  there  in  the 
water.  What  can  it  be  ?  The  true  forget-me-not,  I  do  believe. 
How  lovely  it  is!' 

The  true  forget-me-not  it  turned  out  to  be ;  and  Percy,  who 
had  been  making  a  selection  of  the  prettiest  flowers  he  could 
find,  proceeded  to  mix  some  of  it  with  them,  and  then  arranging 
them  all  with  the  greatest  care,  he  made  them  up  into  a  bouquet 


THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODS.  87 

which,  for  taste  and  beauty,  if  not  for  richness  of  colour  and 
perfume,  might  have  rivalled  any  garden  blossoms. 

'  There  it  is,  Lisa,'  he  said,  as  he  put  the  finishing  touch  to  it. 
*  You  like  wild  flowers,  I  know.  Will  it  be  good  enough  for  this 
evening]' 

*  Good  enough  !  It  is  beautiful.  How  well  you  have  arranged 
them.  But,  Percy,  I  must  not  be  the  only  lady  with  one  this 
evening ;  can't  we  make  another  for  Mary  1  I  have  plenty  of 
flowers  here,  and  if  you  will  get  me  some  of  that  pretty  green 
you  have  put  with  mine,  we  shall  have  one  all  ready  for  her.' 

Percy  did  as  he  was  asked ;  and  when  Lisa,  with  great  glee, 
had  made  up  another  bouquet  for  her  cousin,  they  resumed  their 
walk,  and,  after  some  more  scrambling,  came  out  upon  some  rising 
ground  not  far  from  the  spot  they  had  come  to  see.  They  de- 
cided to  wait  there  for  the  rest  of  the  party,  and  as  there  were 
no  signs  of  their  approach,  and  a  fallen  tree  offered  a  convenient 
seat,  they  sat  down,  not  sorry  to  rest  after  their  long  walk.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  they  could  have  chosen  for 
the  purpose,  on  the  summit  of  a  knoll  above  the  stream  whose 
banks  they  had  followed,  and  whose  waters  bubbled  and  danced 
below  in  alternate  light  and  shade.  Behind  them  rose  high 
rocks  whose  recesses  were  tapestried  with  lichens  and  pale  green 
feathery  ferns,  and  over  their  heads  the  ash-tree  and  the  beech 
mingled  their  branches,  and  shut  out  the  scorching  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  Here  and  there,  however,  there  came  down  a 
bright  beam  or  two  on  the  long  grass  and  the  tangled  brush- 
wood; and  through  the  heavy  foliage  an  occasional  glimpse 
might  be  caught  of  the  azure  sky  above.  Some  few  insects 
hovered  where  the  sunlight  fell,  and  now  and  then  a  bee  mur- 
mured past ;  but  the  woods  were  very  still,  for  the  birds  were 
sheltering  from  the  heat,  and  even  the  topmost  leaves  of  the  trees 
drooped  idly,  for  there  was  no  wind  to  stir  them.  The  breezes 
had  strayed  away  that  day,  and  silence  and  rest  seemed  to  have 
settled  on  everything.  Lisa  herself  sat  silent  and  still,  looking 
at  the  scene  around  her,  and  listening  to  a  description  which 
Percy  gave  her  of  the  forests  of  Jamaica  where  he  had  once  been. 
She  could  see  it  all  in  imagination — the  grand  old  trees  with 
trunks  like  massive  columns ;  the  light  that  came  down,  soft  and 
green,  through  their  leafy  arches ;  the  festoons  of  trailing  creepers 
drooping  from  their  boughs ;  and  the  solemn  gloom  that  brooded 
over  all.     In  fancy  she  walked  among  them,  and  felt  the  warm. 


88  ATHERSTONE  PRIOllY. 

damp  air  steaming  up  from  the  moist  ground  beneath  her  feet  j 
and  saw  the  tall  ferns  waving  round  her  in  thousands  and 
myriads.  And  in  fancy,  after  long  wanderings  through  the 
forest,  she  emerged  from  its  shadows,  and  trod  more  open 
ground,  brilliant  with  flowers  of  gorgeous  colours,  and  alive  with 
butterflies  and  insects  more  gorgeous  still ;  while,  all  about  her, 
among  the  purple  blossoms,  and  the  bright  green  leaves,  black 
and  golden  humming-birds  were  flitting  in  countless  numbers. 
Or  she  went  higher  still,  and  heard  in  lonely  wilds  the  ^  Miserere ' 
chanted  in  sweet  unearthly  tones  by  the  solitaire,  and  watched 
the  yellow  light  glitter  on  untrod  mountain  peaks,  and  on  the 
distant  sea.  She  sat  wrapt  in  a  sort  of  trance  as  those  far-off 
scenes  rose,  one  by  one,  before  her  in  all  the  splendour  of  their 
tropical  beauty — beauty  of  which  she  might  have  read  a  hundred 
times,  and  never  have  realised  it  as  she  did,  while  listening  to 
the  glowing  words  with  which  Percy  clothed  his  descriptions. 
And  w^hen  he  paused  at  length,  she  started,  to  find  herself  so 
far  away  from  the  mountains  and  forests  where,  in  fancy,  she 
had  been  wandering ;  sitting  instead  in  an  English  wood,  with 
English  wild  flowers  and  English  trees  around  her,  and  in  place 
of  the  purple  ocean,  a  little  babbling  brook  at  her  feet,  with 
green  banks  above  it,  and  low  shrubs  dipping  into  its  waters. 
Percy,  who  had  been  watching  her  while  he- was  speaking,  smiled 
at  the  expression  of  her  face. 

*  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Lisa  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Thinking  of  1  Of  what  you  were  telling  me — of  those 
places,  and  how  beautiful  they  must  be.  I  was  half  wishing  I 
could  see  them  all.' 

'  Only  half  wishing  !  You  do  not  want  to  leave  England,  then  ? 
But  would  it  be  very  hard  for  you  to  do  so  if  you  were  obliged — 
would  you  mind  it  very  much  ] ' 

Lisa  looked  up  in  some  surprise,  but  it  was  more  at  the  tone 
in  which  this  was  said  than  at  the  words  themselves. 

*  I  don't  know.  But  why — why  do  you  ask  ?  I  shall  never 
have  to  go,  shall  I  ?  unless — yes,  I  had  forgotten  that — perhaps 
when  I  am  a  governess  I  may  be  obliged.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  like 
it  at  all ;  I  should  be  so  far  away  from  the  Priory :  I  hope  I 
never  shall.' 

'  I  did  not  mean  that,  Lisa.  You  might  go  with  some  one 
you  cared  for — some  one  who  cared  for  you — would  that  make  a 
difference  ?     Would  jrou  dislike  going  then  ]' 


THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODS.  89 

Lisa  looked  at  him.  '  No.  I  don't  tliink  so ;  I  should  not 
mind  where  I  went  with  any  one  I  cared  for.  But  that  is  the 
worst  of  being  a  governess :  you  can't  be  with  the  people  you 
care  for ;  I  never  knew  till  lately  how  hard  that  must  be, 
because  I  never  felt  before  how  much  the  Priory  is  like  a  home 
to  me.  That  has  been  your  doing,  Percy ;  it  is  you  who  have 
made  it  so ;  it  has  been  a  different  place  since  you  came,  and  it 
will  be  very  different  to  me  again  when  you  go.'  There  was 
something  of  sadness  in  her  tone. 

'  Well,  I  am  not  going  yet,  Lisa,'  he  answered  lightly.  *  I 
stay  till  October  now,  you  know.' 

'  Yes,  I  am  very  glad.  And  I  hope  when  you  go,  it  will  not 
be  where  there  is  any  fighting.  I  used  to  like  to  hear  of  battles 
and  glory,  but  I  don't  now,  and  I  wish  there  was  nothing  of 
the  sort.     I  can't  bear  it.^ 

*  What,  not  the  glory,  Lisa  ?  You,  who  are  so  excited  when 
you  read  of  heroic  deeds,  and  who  look  as  if  you  were  ready 
to  march  to  battle  yourself  when  you  hear  stirring  music ; 
you  to  say  that  you  don't  care  for  glory !  That  must  be  a 
mistake.' 

*  No,  it  isn't.  I  like  glory  very  much,  and  I  like  to  hear  of 
brave  things  that  have  been  done  when  I  know  the  danger  is 
over ;  but  I  don't  like  to  hear  of  them  when  some  one  I  care  for 
is  in  the  midst  of  it  all ;  and  that  would  always  be  the  case  now, 
you  know,  if  you  ever  went  where  there  was  fighting.  I 
shouldn't  think  of  honour  or  glory  then  ;  I  should  only  be 
thinking  of  you.' 

Percy  was  silent.  He  rose  suddenly  and  stood  for  a  moment 
as  if  irresolute ;  and  then,  as  she  got  up  too,  believing  that  he 
had  seen  the  others  coming,  he  turned  to  her  in  ill-disguised 
agitation. 

*  It 's  no  use,  Lisa ;  I  can't  let  it  go  on.  I  must  tell  you,  and 
if He  paused,  for  she  was  looking  at  him  with  such  astonish- 
ment, with  such  utter  unconsciousness  of  what  might  be  coming, 
that  his  resolution  failed  him.  He,  Percy  Tennent,  who  had 
faced  death  in  a  hundred  forms  on  the  battle-field,  who  had 
marched  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth,  and  not  known  what  fear 
was,  felt  his  courage  going  w^hen  about  to  say  a  few  words  to 
his  little  cousin — a  child  almost  in  years,  but  to  him  a  woman, 
and,  in  all  the  world,  the  first  and  the  dearest.  He  trembled  ta 
think  of  the  happiness  or  misery  that  must  be  staked  on  the 


90  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

answer  to  those  few  words.  He  hesitated  whether  to  risk  so 
much  when  it  was  plain,  from  her  very  freedom  from  embarrass- 
ment, she  had  no  suspicion  of  his  feelings  towards  her.  He  felt 
he  would  have  given  anything  at  that  moment  to  see  her  blush, 
or  show  any  sign  of  confusion.  But  she  did  not :  her  eye  met 
his  with  the  same  confiding  gaze  with  which  she  always  looked 
at  him ;  and  the  expression  uppermost  in  her  face  was  that  of 
simple  surprise. 

'  What  is  it  V  she  said,  finding  that  he  was  still  silent ;  ^  what 
must  you  tell  me?'  and  her  tone  became  a  little  uneasy. 

^  Nothing  to  frighten  you,'  he  said.  ^  No,  Lisa ;  I  only  hesi- 
tated because  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  right  to  ask  what  I 

wish :  I  am  not  at  all  sure  how  you' He  paused  again,  for 

voices  were  heard  close  at  hand.  ^Ah,  well,  it's  too  late 
now;'  and  whether  he  felt  most  vexed  or  relieved  at  the  inter- 
ruption, he  could  hardly  have  told.  *I  ought  to  have  spoken 
sooner.' 

Lisa  looked  at  him.  ^  It  is  something  bad,  Percy ;  I  am 
sure  it  is.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  It  is  something  you 
don't  like.' 

He  half  smiled.  *  It  will  depend  upon  you,  Lisa,  whether  it 
it  is  good  or  bad  for  me,'  he  said,  beginning  to  walk  on. 

*  On  me!'  she  exclaimed,  in  the  utmost  astonishment;  but 
she  had  no  time  to  ask  any  more  questions,  for  the  others  were 
ascending  the  slope ;  and  no  sooner  were  they  within  speaking 
distance  than  inquiries  began  as  to  how  long  the  two  had  been 
there,  which  way  they  had  come,  and  what  they  had  been  doing 
— inquiries  which  Lisa  had  to  answer,  for  Percy  scarcely  seemed 
to  hear  what  was  passing. 

*  And  so  you  came  by  a  short  cut?'  said  Kate  Eraser,  turning 
to  Lisa  with  a  little  laugh ;  *  I  suppose  you  had  a  pleasant 
walkf 

*  Yes,  very  pleasant ;  delightful  it  was.  We  came  by  the 
brook ;  and  you  have  no  idea  how  pretty  it  is  down  there,  close 
to  the  water.' 

*  Is  it  ?  I  wonder,  then,  that  you  did  not  ask  us  to  go  with 
you,  instead  of  going  off  alone  with  Captain  Tennent ;  it  would 
have  been  much  kinder,  wouldn't  it,  Martha?'  looking  with 
a  smile  at  her  sister. 

'  Nonsense,  Kate ;  how  could  you  expect  it  ?  When  people 
are  in  pleasant  company  they  don't  remember  those  kind  of 


THE  HAZELDEAN  WOODS.  91 

things.  And  Captain  Tennent  can  be  very  agreeable  when  he 
likes — he  is  not  always  so  grave  as  he  is  just  now/  with  a  glance 
at  Percy. 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  from  Lisa  :  she  did  not  under- 
stand what  amused  them  so  much ;  but  she  saw  that  the  joke, 
whatever  it  was,  was  at  her  expense,  and  she  felt  rather  inclined 
to  be  vexed. 

Kate  laughed  again  as  she  watched  her,  and  then  seeing 
that  she  was  really  distressed,  turned  her  attention  to  her 
flowers. 

^  But  how  did  you  manage  to  get  so  many  1  We  hardly  saw 
any  as  we  came  along,  and  I  am  so  fond  of  flowers  !  I  wish 
you  would  give  me  a  few  of  yours.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  as  many  as  you  like,'  Lisa  began,  eagerly,  but 
stopping  suddenly  as  she  was  about  to  undo  them.  *  At  least — 
I  forgot.  I'm  very  sorry — but — I  didn't  get  them  myself, 
and' 

*  And  you  would  rather  not  give  them  away.  Of  course  not.' 
Kate's  eyes  were  brimming  over  with  amusement.  *  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  asking  for  them.  Captain  Tennent  got  them,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

'  Yes,  and  he  took  so  much  trouble  to  arrange  them  that  I 
don't  like  to — I  mean — you  should  have  them  directly  if  I  had 
got  them  myself,  but' ■ 

'  My  dear,  I  quite  understand.  You  needn't  trouble  yourself 
to  make  excuses ;  I  really  don't  care  about  them.  I  am  sorry  I 
asked  for  them  at  all.' 

And  with  another  glance  at  her  sister,  and  at  Isabel,  who  was 
standing  by,  she  walked  off,  leaving  Lisa  looking  at  her  flowers 
in  no  very  comfortable  frame  of  mind,  though  why  she  felt  so 
much  annoyed  she  hardly  knew.  She  had  not  much  time, 
however,  to  indulge  in  unpleasant  reflections,  for  there  was 
a  general  move  again.  The  dripping-well  wad  oiily  a  Jew 
minutes'  walk  from  the  place,  and  every  one  was  anxious  to 
get  to  it. 


92  ATHERSTOKE  PRIORY. 

CHAPTER  XIIL 

*  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN  NOW.' 

The  party  were  starting  when  Janet  Darrell  came  U|j  to  Lisa 
and  put  her  arm  in  hers. 

*  Will  you  walk  with  me,  Lisa  ?  I  want  to  speak  to  you  par- 
ticularly.' 

Lisa  was  surprised,  but  she  had  no  objection  to  make,  and 
they  set  out  together,  Janet  saying  nothing  until  the  others  were 
out  of  hearing.     Then  she  turned  round  with  a  smile. 

'  You  won't  be  offended  with  me,  will  you,  if  you  shouldn't 
happen  to  like  what  I  am  going  to  say  ? ' 

^  Offended  ! '  Lisa's  tone  was  a  little  uneasy.  She  began  to 
wonder  what  was  coming. 

*  You  must  not  think  me  meddling,'  Janet  went  on.  ^  If  you 
were  not  half  so  much  of  a  child  as  you  are,  I  should  not  thint". 
of  saying  a  word  to  you.  It 's  because  I  am  sure  you  don't  know 
what  you  are  doing  that  I  wish  to  put  you  on  your  guard.  Yo^ 
don't  want  to  get  talked  about,  I  am  certain.' 

Lisa  looked  bewildered.  ^  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Who 
is  to  talk  of  me  1     What  have  I  done  1 ' 

Janet  smiled  a  little.  *  Nothing  very  bad.  I  told  you  I  was 
only  wishing  to  give  you  a  warning.'  And  then,  changing  her 
tone,  '  Why  didn't  you  keep  with  us  as  we  were  coming  here, 
instead  of  walking  off  alone  with  Captain  Tennent  ? ' 

*  Why  1  I  don't  know.  We  got  on  before  you,  and  he  asked 
me  to  go  the  short  way  with  him.      Was  there  any  harm  in  it  1 ' 

*  No  harm  exactly,  but  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  stayed  with  us ; '  and  then,  seeing  that  Lisa  still  looked 
perplexed,  '  Pray,  what  relation  is  he  to  you,  my  dear  ? ' 

*  What  relation  1  Why,  Mrs  Darrell,  you  know,  he 's  my 
cousin.     What  makes  you  ask  1 ' 

^  Only  because  you  treat  him  as  if  he  were  something  much 
nearer.' 

'Do  IV  said  Lisa,  slowly,  as  if  considering.  *  But,  yes,  I 
suppose  I  do.  I  have  no  brother  of  my  own,  but  he  is  just  as 
good  as  one  to  me.' 

'  Perhaps  so  ;  but  if  you  choose  to  consider  him  in  that  light, 
other  people  don't  forget  he  is  only  a  cousin ;  and,  excuse  me—' 
but  I  think  a  little  more  reserve  with  him  would  be  better.' 


^  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN  NOW.'  93 

'A  little  more  reserve?  But  wliy?  He  wouldn't  like  it. 
What  has  he  done  1 ' 

*  My  dear  Lisa,  don't  be  so  innocent.  If  I  didn't  know  you, 
I  should  say  you  were  pretending  to  misunderstand  me.  You 
are  not  such  a  child  as  not  to  see  that  you  can't  be  so  free  and 
easy  with  him  without  attracting  attention.  In  short,  if  you 
must  have  it  out  plainly,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  cousins  falling 
in  love.' 

Lisa  was  silent,  but  it  was  not  because  she  misunderstood 
now.     Her  face  and  neck  were  crimson  in  a  moment. 

*  You  must  not  be  angry  with  me,'  Janet  went  on  ;  '  I  only 
intended  to  give  you  a  hint,  that  you  may  take  care  what  you 
are  doing.     Unless,  indeed,  he  has  ever  said  anything  to' 

^  He  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  such  a  thing ;  never, 
never,  never ! '  Lisa  exclaimed,  in  the  utmost  distress.  *  He 
never  has.' 

*  My  dear,  you  needn't  be  so  vehement.  I  was  only  going  to 
say  that  if  you  and  he  understand  each  other,  that  would  make 
a  difference.  But  if,  as  you  say,  you  are  nothing  more  than 
cousins,  I  think  it  would  be  quite  as  well  to  treat  him  as  one. 
You  heard  what  the  Erasers  said  just  now;  and  they  are  not  the 
only  people  to-day  who  have' 

*  You  needn't  go  on,  Mrs  Darrell,'  Lisa  said,  in  a  choked 
voice.  *  You  needn't  tell  me  any  more.  I  know  what  you 
mean  ;  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before.'  She  tried  to  speak  quietly, 
but  her  words  came  out  with  difficulty,  and  the  burning  colour 
in  her  face  grew  deeper  and  deeper. 

Janet  saw  her  confusion,  but  took  no  notice,  and  not  another 
word  was  spoken  by  either  until  they  reached  the  dripping-well, 
when  Lisa  disengaged  herself  from  her  and  joined  her  cousin 
Elinor.  Her  heightened  colour  and  disturbed  appearance  would 
most  certainly  have  attracted  attention,  had  not  all  been  too  busy, 
talking  and  admiring,  to  look  at  her.  But  wild  and  beautiful  as 
the  scenery  was,  and  much  as  she  had  always  longed  to  see  it,  it 
was  completely  lost  upon  her.  Eocks,  woods,  and  water  all  lay 
before  her  in  romantic  loveliness ;  but  if  any  one  had  asked  her 
what  she  saw,  she  could  not  have  told  them,  for  wherever  she  went 
she  found  Percy  at  her  side.  She  was  afraid  to  look  at,  almost 
even  to  speak  to  him;  and  not  thinking  that  such  a  sudden  change 
was  likely  to  make  herself  remarked,  she  grew  stiff  and  con- 
strained, and  gave  such  short  answers  to  everything  he  said  that 
he  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.    She  was  glad  when  Mr  Thorpe 


94  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

came  up  to  point  something  out  to  her,  and  thinking  anything 
better  than  these  miserable  attempts  to  appear  unconcerned  with 
her  cousin,  she  gave  her  new  companion  so  much  encouragement 
that  he  seemed  little  inclined  to  leave  her  again.  He  walked 
back  to  the  castle  with  her  and  Elinor,  where  a  surprise  was 
awaiting  them.  Two  gentlemen  were  there — strangers  at  first 
Lisa  thought  them,  until,  upon  hearing  their  voices  behind  them, 
they  turned,  and  then  she  discovered  that  one  of  them  was 
Arthur  Darrell.  With  an  exclamation  of  joy  she  sprang  forward 
to  meet  him. 

*  Scaramouch,  I  declare  !'  was  his  greeting,  with  an  exaggerated 
expression  of  her  surprise.  *  But,'  surveying  her  from  head  to 
foot,  '  Scaramouch  no  longer.  Well,  I  never  should  have  believed 
it !  Lisa  Kennedy  in  a  whole  dress,  and  looking  like  the  rest  of 
the  world  !     What  a  transformation  !' 

'  Nonsense,  Arthur ;  how  can  you  be  so  ridiculous.  But  how 
did  you  get  here,  and  when  did  you  come  1 ' 

^  If  you  wish  to  know  why  we  came  you  must  ask  the  supreme 
power  there,^  looking  at  his  brother.  '  I  can  give  no  reason.  All 
I  can  tell  you  is,  I  was  fast  asleep  on  three  chairs  in  the  dining- 
room  at  Gainsford  last  night,  when  he  woke  me  up,  and  said, 
^'  I'm  going  to  Atherstone  to-morrow,  Arthur.^'  *' All  right,"  I 
said,  and  went  to  sleep  again,  and  here  we  are.' 

*  And  they  told  you  at  the  Priory,  I  suppose,  where  we 
were  1 ' 

*  Yes,  they  said  you  were  having  a  jollification  here ;  so  we 
thought  w^e  would  come  out  and  see  the  fun.  We  took  the  train 
to  Stoke,  and  came  through  the  woods.      But  where  are  the 

others'?      Janet  and  Isabel,  and' with  an  odd  look — *  Le 

Balafr^  1  By  the  way,  Lisa,  how  do  you  get  on  with  him  1  Do 
you  still  confine  yourself  to  ^'  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  when  he  speaks 
to  you  1  * 

Lisa  tried  to  laugh,  but  she  did  not  succeed  very  well ;  and  it 
was  happy  for  her  that  the  arrival  of  Janet  took  off  Arthur's 
attention  from  her  very  visible  embarrassment.  While  every  one 
else  talked  and  laughed,  she  sat  silent  and  downcast,  only  intent 
upon  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  Percy.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
do,  for  he  was  too  short-sighted  to  distinguish  her  unless  she 
were  quite  close  to  him,  and  among  so  many  people  it  was  hardly 
likely  he  would  make  her  out  if  she  chose  to  avoid  him.  She 
did  not  meet  him  until  after  tea,  when  they  were  all  assembling 
in  the  courtyard  for  dancing,  and  then  she  suddenly  remembered 


*  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN  NOW.'  95 

that  she  had  promised  the  first  two  dances  to  him.  The  recol- 
lection came  just  in  time,  for  Mr  Thorpe  was  asking  her,  and 
after  him  came  up  Arthur  and  three  or  four  others.  She  was 
engaged  seven  or  eight  deep  before  she  knew  what  she  was  about; 
but  the  music  was  beginning,  and  people  were  all  taking  their 
places  before  Percy  made  his  appearance  to  claim  her  promise. 
She  rose  hurriedly  then  without  a  word,  and  they  joined  a  set 
that  was  forming  for  the  opening  quadrille. 

'  You  are  tired,  Lisa,'  he  remarked.  *  That  walk  this  afternoon 
was  too  much  for  you.' 

*  Was  it?     No,  I  don't  think  so.     I  don't  feel  at  all  tired.' 
Poor  Lisa  !     If  she  had  been  a  little  older  she  would  not  have 

been  so  foolish  ',  she  would  have  known  better  what  to  do  ;  but 
she  was  shy  and  frightened,  and  really  did  not  know  how  to 
appear  at  ease  ;  and  matters  were  not  improved  by  her  observing 
looks  of  amused  intelligence  passing  between  the  Erasers,  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  same  set  as  herself.  The  first  two  figures 
of  the  dance  were  gone  through  in  silence,  and  Percy's  next 
attempt  at  sociability  was  not  more  successful  than  the  first. 

*  Where  are  your  flowers,  Lisa  ? '  he  said.  ^  Have  you  thrown 
them  away  1 ' 

*  No,  I  put  them  in  water  somewhere.  But  I  don't  want 
them.     I  don't  care  about  them  now.' 

Not  very  gracious ;  but,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  ?  A  few 
flowers  given  by  a  cousin  were  not  of  any  consequence.  There 
was  another  long  pause,  which  Percy  broke  once  more  by  say- 
ing— 

^  I  wonder  what  has  come  to  us  this  evening,  that  we  are  both 
so  silent.  Any  one  to  see  us  would  say  that  we  had  never  met 
before,  and  didn't  know  what  to  talk  about.  What  is  the  reason 
we  are  so  stiff  and  formal  ?  We  are  not  going  to  be  strangers, 
are  we,  Lisa  1 ' 

The  tears  rushed  to  Lisa's  eyes,  and  she  was  obliged  to  turn 
away  her  head  that  he  might  not  see  them  ;  she  could  not  answer, 
and  felt  thankful  that  the  whirl  of  the  concluding  galope  covered 
her  embarrassment,  and  saved  the  necessity  of  any  reply.  But 
when  the  dance  was  over,  and  she  would  have  returned  to  her 
seat,  Percy  detained  her. 

^  Lisa,  you  have  not  answered  me  yet.  What  is  it  makes  you 
so  strange  to-night  ?     I  have  not  displeased  you  in  any  way,  have 

ir 

Displeased  her  !     How  little  fear  there  was  of  his  ever  doing 


96  ATHEHSTONE  PRIORY. 

that  slie  well  knew ;  but  only  afraid  of  betraying  her  real  feel- 
ings, she  took  refuge  in  her  old  defiant  manner. 

^  I  am  not  displeased.  I  don't  know  why  you  should  fancy 
such  a  thing  ;  but  I  am  not  obliged  to  talk,  I  suppose,  if  I  don't 
like/ 

'  Certainly  not,'  and  he  drew  himself  up,  and  for  a  moment 
looked  exceedingly  proud.  '  Certainly  not ;  and  I  am  the  last 
person  to  force  you  to  do  so  against  your  wish.'  But  pride  gave 
way,  and  his  tone  changed  to  one  of  entreaty.  *  For  Heaven's 
sake,  Lisa,  don't  be  so  cold  to  me — don't  let  us  quarrel  for 
nothing.  I  have  done  something  —  said  something  that  has 
vexed  you.     Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  1' 

He  had  caught  her  hand,  and  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

*  I  am  not  vexed,'  she  said,  struggling  to  free  herself.  ^  You 
have  done  nothing,  but — 0  Percy,'  changing  her  tone,  *  let  me 
go,  I  don't  like  it ; '  and  in  an  agony  of  fear  lest  they  should  be 
observed,  ^  Let  me  go.  Captain  Tennent ;  you  have  no  right  to 
make  me  give  reasons  for  what  I  do  :  let  me  go.' 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  repeat  her  words ;  he  let  her 
hand  fall. 

' ''  Captain  Tennent !  "    O  Lisa  ! ' 

But  she  did  not  wait  to  answer  ;  she  did  not  follow  the 
impulse  which  would  have  led  her  to  turn  back  for  one  more 
word.  The  only  thing,  she  felt,  was  to  leave  him  and  try  to 
forget  what  had  passed ;  and  if  excitement  could  have  helped 
her  to  do  this,  she  would  have  succeeded  to  her  heart's  content. 
She  did  not  sit  down  the  whole  evening,  and  smiled,  and  talked, 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  no  thought  but  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
moment.  Percy  did  not  ask  her  to  dance  again,  but  he  was 
standing  by  her  once  in  the  pause  of  a  waltz,  and  her  eye  hap- 
pened to  meet  his.  It  fell  directly  ;  but  Cunninghame  Thorpe, 
who  was  dancing  with  her,  said  something,  and  she  smiled,  and 
looked  up  again,  and  with  a  careless  glance  at  the  place  where  her 
cousin  was  standing,  she  was  gone  once  more. 

The  long  day  came  to  an  end.  Delightful  it  had  been  said  by 
nearly  everybody.  There  were  only  two  who  thought  differently, 
and  they  were  silent ;  but  though  Lisa,  for  one,  said  nothing 
about  the  pleasure  she  had  had,  she  was  among  the  last  of  the 
dancers  in  the  courtyard,  and  when  the  carriages  came  round 
she  had  to  be  looked  for.  Mrs  Tennent  was  not  pleased  at 
the  delay. 

'  And  where  is  your  shawl,  child  1 '  she  said,  when  Lisa  at 


'  SHK  WAS  A  WOMAN  NOW.'  97 

length  made  her  appearance  witli  Mr  Thorpe.  *  You  can't  be 
driving  home  at  this  time  of  night  with  only  that  thin  mantle  on. 
Percy,  find  her  shawl  for  her ;  I  suppose  it  was  left  in  the  other 
carriage.'' 

Lisa  started.  She  had  not  seen  her  cousin  was  so  near  her ; 
but  without  looking  at  her  he  went  off  in  search  of  the  missing 
article.  Nor  did  he  speak  when  he  returned  with  it ;  he  put  it 
on,  and  then  placing  her  in  the  carriage,  raised  his  hat  to  the 
party  there,  and  was  turning  away  when  Kate  Fraser  came  run- 
ning up. 

*  Here,  Miss  Kennedy,  you  are  leaving  your  flowers  behind 
you.  I  found  them  in  a  corner  of  the  courtyard,  and  I  know 
you  prize  them  particularly.'  She  smiled  as  she  threw  them 
into  liisa's  lap.  *  It  would  have  been  a  pity  not  to  take  them  ; 
they  are  so  pretty,  and  not  at  all  withered.' 

Lisa's  face  flashed.  *  Not  withered,  but  they  are  very  wet 
and  nasty.  I  'm  sorry  you  had  the  trouble  of  bringing  them  ; 
they  are  not  worth  anything.'  She  tossed  them  back,  and  turned 
away  with  an  air  of  indifference.  They  fell  on  the  ground  at 
Percy's  feet,  and  the  carriage  wheels  passed  over  them  and 
crushed  them  in  the  dust.  Fit  type  of  his  own  crushed  and  fad- 
ing hopes. 

And  all  the  way  home  Lisa,  silent  and  unnoticed,  was  crying 
bitterly.  The  long  drive  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end,  and  as 
trees  and  hedges  passed  by  in  slow  succession,  she  could  hardly 
believe  the  road  was  the  same  by  which  they  had  come  that 
morning.  But  the  welcome  lights  of  Atherstone  were  seen  at 
last,  and  after  that,  home  was  soon  reached  ;  and  then,  when 
every  one  went  to  the  drawing-room,  she  slipped  away  to  her  own 
little  closet. 

And  there  she  could  think.  In  her  solitude  she  could  go  over 
the  whole  of  the  past  day ;  and  when  Mary,  who  slept  in  the 
room  adjoining  hers,  had  been  to  say  '  good  night,'  then  Lisa,  no 
longer  afraid  of  being  heard,  sat  up  in  her  little  bed  and  cried  as 
if  her  heart  would  break.  For  she  knew  it  all  now ;  Janet's 
words  had  opened  her  eyes.  She  knew  now  all  that  Percy  was 
to  her — all  that  he  had  been  for  so  long,  while  she  was  still 
ignorant  of  the  state  of  her  feelings  towards  him.  She  trembled, 
indeed,  to  think  what  those  feelings  were — how  very  dearly  she 
loved  him.  What  did  it  matter  that  he  was  plain,  and  silent,  and 
grave  ?     He  was  not  so  to  her ;  he  was  everything  that  was 

G 


98  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

perfect  in  her  estimation ;  and  she  loved  him  better,  far  better, 
than  any  one  else  in  the  whole  world.  Her  affection  for  Mary, 
warm  as  it  was,  sank  into  insignificance  when  compared  with  the 
intensity  of  that  which  she  felt  for  him — little  as  she  had  known 
or  suspected  it  until  within  the  last  few  hours ;  and  now  she  had 
slighted  and  quarrelled  with  him,  because  she  was  afraid  of  her 
real  feelings  being  discovered.  For  she  saw  what  it  was  that  had 
made  Janet's  remarks  so  unwelcome;  if  there  had  been  no  truth 
in  them,  they  would  have  made  but  little  impression  on  her. 

But  now  she  had  found  out  what  he  was  to  her,  and  never 
again  could  she  lose  the  consciousness  of  it ;  never  again  could 
she  meet  him  as  she  had  done.  How  could  she  walk  and  talk 
with  him,  and  tell  him  all  ^e  thought  as  in  the  time  when  she 
had  never  feared  his  knowing  what  was  passing  in  her  mind  ? 
Now  she  felt  as  if  she  could  never  meet  his  eye  without  betray- 
ing her  secret ;  she  fancied  that  every  one  about  her  must  read 
it,  that  all  would  see  the  difference  that  a  few  hours  had  made 
in  her.  Yes,  for  that  one  short  day  had  changed  her  completely ; 
she  had  left  the  house  that  morning  a  light-hearted,  unthinking 
child,  and  she  had  come  back  to  it  in  the  evening  a  woman — 
with  all  a  woman's  doubts  and  fears  crowding  upon  her.  Her 
days  of  utter  thoughtlessness  were  gone  for  ever  ;  and  in  that 
little  room,  on  that  still  summer's  night,  with  the  moonbeams 
shining  on  the  bare  floor  and  whitewashed  walls  around  her, 
Lisa  bade  farewell  to  her  vanished  childhood.  And  many  and 
very  bitter  were  the  tears  she  shed  over  its  memory. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE. 

Lisa's  first  conscious  thought  on  waking  the  next  morning  was, 
that  it  was  Percy's  birthday.  She  had  been  looking  forward  to 
it  for  weeks,  and  all  her  leisure  lately  had  been  devoted  to  a 
drawing,  which  she  had  meant  to  give  him  on  that  day.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  present,  certainly ;  but  it  was  the  only  one  she 
could  give,  for  everything  else  cost  money,  and  she  had  none ; 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE.  99 

SO,  after  much  anxious  deliberation,  slie  had  fixed  upon  a  sketch 
of  the  Priory  as  a  thing  he  was  sure  to  like,  and  which  was,  in 
every  way,  within  the  compass  of  her  powers.  She  had  taken 
it  from  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  unknown  to  any  one ;  and  had 
finished  it  off  with  great  care  in  her  own  room.  She  had  hardly 
known  at  the  time  why  it  was  such  a  happiness  to  do  it,  as  being 
specially  meant  for  him  ;  but  she  knew  only  too  well  now  how 
it  had  been,  and  as  she  took  the  little  sketch  from  the  drawer, 
where  it  had  been  lying  for  some  days  wrapped  in  paper,  she 
looked  at  it  for  a  long  time  very  sadly,  then  she  tore  it  up — not 
in  anger,  but  slowly  and  quietly ;  and  when  she  had  finished — 
when  it  was  torn  into  the  very  smallest  atoms  and  thrown  into 
the  grate — then  there  came  a  long  sob,  as  if  she  had  wrenched 
away  from  her  something  that  was  very  dear.  And  then  she 
dressed  herself  and  went  down-stairs. 

No  one  else  took  any  notice  of  the  day  except  Mary.  Lisa  saw 
her,  just  before  breakfast,  run  out  to  meet  Percy  as  he  came  across 
the  lawn,  and  she  knew  very  well  what  she  had  gone  for.  The 
day  before  she  herself  would  have  run  out  too ;  but  now  she  sat 
still,  and  when  he  came  into  the  room,  she  was  so  busy  talking 
to  xirthur  that  she  appeared  to  be  quite  unaware  of  his  entrance. 
An  engagement  with  a  friend  took  him  away  before  breakfast 
was  over,  and  she  afterwards  retired  to  her  ordinary  occupations, 
with  a  weary  thought  of  the  long  day  before  her.  It  was  a  day, 
however,  which  was  not  destined  to  end  quite  so  monotonously 
as  it  had  begun. 

*  We  '11  have  a  dance  this  evening,'  Arthur  remarked,  as  they 
came  into  the  drawing-room  after  dinner.  '  Nelly,  go  and  hunt 
them  all  up  and  tell  them  what  we  are  going  to  do,  while  I  get 
the  place  into  proper  trim.  Where  is  Mary?  She'll  play  for 
us.' 

^  Mary  is  engaged ;  she  is  writing  some  notes  for  me,'  Mrs 
Tennent  said.  'You  had  better  find  Lisa;  she  is  the  proper 
person  ;  it  is  just  the  thing  for  her  to  do.' 

*Eh,  but  I  want  Lisa  for  a  partner;  I  can't  spare  her  to 
be  exercising  her  talents  on  the  piano,'  exclaimed  Arthur.  *She 
Wouldn't  like  it  herself,  either.  She  'd  rather  dance  any  day,  I 
know.' 

*I  daresay  she  would,  but  it's  no  consequence  what  she  would 
i-ather  do.  Some  one  must  play,  and  it  is  only  right  she  should 
make  herself  useful.     Susan,  go  and  call  your  cousin.' 


100  ATHERSTONE  PRIOllY. 

Susan  disappeared,  and  Arthur  walked  away,  not  looking  par- 
ticularly pleased. 

'  Are  you  engaged,  Nelly  ?  I  Lope  not,  or  I  shall  have  to  ask 
one  of  the  Dacres.     Do  have  compassion  on  me.' 

*  So  I  would,'  said  Nelly,  with  a  smile.  *  But  I  have  pro- 
mised to  dance  with  Mr  Thorpe ;  I  can't  think  where  he  is ;  I 
wish  he  would  come.' 

But  Mr  Thorpe  did  not  make  his  ai)pearance,  and  they  were 
all  taking  their  places. 

*But  who  plays  r  everybody  was  exclaiming.  *Is  no  one 
going  to  the  piano  1  I  thought  it  Avas  to  be  Lisa  Kennedy,  but 
she  isn't  here.' 

*  Where  is  your  cousin,  Susan  ?  Didn't  you  tell  her  she  was 
wanted  ] '  said  Mrs  Tennent,  sharply. 

*  I  can't  find  her ;  she  is  not  in  the  garden,  and  she  's  not  up- 
stairs ;  and  Mary  hasn't  seen  her,'  said  Susan,  breathless  with 
the  run  she  had  had. 

*  Nonsense,  child ;  she  must  be  somewhere.  You  have  not 
called  her ;  go  again,  and  make  haste. 

*  Oh,  never  mind ;  let  Nelly  take  her  place,'  exclaimed  Arthur. 
*  She  '11  come  fast  enough  when  she  hears  the  music.  It  don't 
matter  who  plays,  so  that  we  don't  lose  all  our  time  waiting,' 

'  I  think  it  does  iiiatter,'  said  Mrs  Tennent,  drily.  *  It  is  my 
wish  that  Lisa  should  play.  Go  directly,  Susan  ;  you  heard  what 
I  said,  didn't  you  ? '  And  Susan  went  off  a  second  time,  while 
Arthur  walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and  gave  a  long  whistle. 

*Here,  Lisa,  turn  up  from  somewhere,  can't  you?  All  the 
world's  waiting  for  you.* 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  and  then  footsteps  w^ere  heard 
on  the  gravel-walk,  and  a  moment  after  Lisa  came  up  to  the 
window,  out  of  breath  and  with  a  heightened  colour. 

*  Hallo,  Scaramouch !  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  stealing 
fruit,  or  otherwise  misbehaving  yourself?  You  have  a  won- 
drous guilty  appearance.' 

*  Come  in,  child,'  said  Mrs  Tennent,  angrily.  '  Why  do  you 
always  contrive  to  be  out  of  the  way  when  you  are  wanted  ? 
Susan  has  been  looking  everywhere  for  you.  What  were  you 
doing]' 

*  I  was  in  the  green-walk,'  Lisa  murmured,  in  a  voice  that 
was  scarcely  audible.     *  I  didn't  hear  any  one  call  me.' 

Mrs  Tennent  gave  her  a  scrutinising  glance.    '  Well,  come  in 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE.  101 

now;  what  are  you  standing  there  for,  as  if  you  were  afraid  of 
showing  yourself  1  Get  your  music  and  begin ;  you  have  kept 
them  quite  long  enough/ 

Lisa  made  no  answer.  She  w^ent  to  the  piano,  and  seemed 
very  busy  turning  over  her  music-books.  But  she  was  a  long 
time  about  it,  and  some  of  them  grew  impatient. 

*  Now  then,  Lisa,  make  haste,'  they  exclaimed.  '  Can't  you 
begin  ]  we  are  all  ready.' 

^Not  all,'  said  Arthur;  *  where 's  Thorpe?  there's  Nelly 
sitting,  the  model  of  patience,  waiting  for  him.  Where  in  the 
world  is  he  gone  1 ' 

Nobody  knew,  but  some  one  suggested  he  was  very  likely 
smoking. 

*Then  he's  in  the  garden,  of  course — taken  refuge  in  the 
green- walk  too,  most  probably.  Did  you  meet  with  him,  Lisa, 
in  the  course  of  your  peregrinations  1 ' 

Lisa  was  stooping  over  some  music,  and  made  no  reply  ; 
and  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr  Thorpe  himself 
walked  in.  He  had  been  in  the  library  reading,  he  said,  and 
would  have  come  before  if  he  had  known  they  -svere  going  to 
begin  so  soon ;  and  he  made  many  apologies  to  Elinor  for  his 
seeming  neglect — apologies  which  were  not  ©ver  when  the  music 
struck  up  and  they  began  to  dance. 

Lisa's  performance  that  evening  was  not  brilliant;  she  was  very 
nervous,  and  her  hand  was  so  unsteady  that  she  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  turning  over  the  leaves  at  the  right  time.  But,  happily, 
everybody  was  too  much  engrossed  Avith  their  amusement  to  think 
of  the  music,  and  except  to  ask  her  to  play  faster  or  slower,  very 
little  w^as  said  to  her.  She  went  on  for  more  than  an  hour ;  and 
then  Mary,  coming  in,  offered  to  take  her  place.  Arthur  seized 
her  at  once;  but  when  she  was  asked  afterwards  by  some  one  else, 
she  said  she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  rest.  She  stole  away,  and 
going  into  the  back  drawing-room,  sat  down  by  the  open  window, 
and  resting  her  head  upon  her  hand,  remained  for  some  time  list- 
lessly watching  the  dancers.  Two  or  three  parties  sauntered  in 
once  or  twice,  finding  it  cooler  than  in  the  other  more  crowded 
room ;  but  they  came  and  went  without  noticing  her,  and  she 
might  have  sat  for  long  undisturbed  in  her  retreat  in  the 
bay-window,  had  not  some  one  entered  at  last  Avith  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  seeking  her.  It  Avas  Mr  Thorpe ;  and  although 
she  drew  herself  as  far  back  as  possible,  he  caught  a  glimpse 


102  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

of  lier  dress,  and  immediately  came  up  to  the  window.      She 
rose  hastily. 

'  You  are  not  going  1 '  he  said,  rather  reproachfully  at  this 
sudden  movement.     ^  Surely  you  will  let  me' 

*  No,  I  can't ;  please  don't,'  she  exclaimed  hurriedly ;  ^  I  really 
wish  to  go.  Don't  keep  me.'  She  attempted  to  pass  him,  but 
he  had  placed  himself  before  her. 

^  But,  Miss  Kennedy,  you  can  t  refuse  to  hear  me — you  mis- 
understood me  before;  you  did  not  know  what  I  meant,  or 
thought  I  was  not  serious,  but' 

*  No,  Mr  Thorpe ;  I  understood  you  perfectly,  and  I  hoped 
you  understood  me  too.  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  speak  to  me 
again  about  such  things,  for  indeed  I  don't  like  it.  I  told  you 
I  couldn't  listen  to  you.  Won't  you  let  me  go"?'  in  a  voice  of 
entreaty. 

There  was  no  reply  for  a  moment,  for  Cunninghame  w^as 
perplexed.  That  he  with  his  handsome  face  and  figure — his 
baronetcy  and  some  thousands  a  year  in  prospective,  and  who  had 
been  run  after  by  young  ladies  without  number — that  he  should 
be  refused,  was  a  thing  incredible ;  least  of  all  by  Lisa  Kennedy, 
who  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world,  and  not  even  a  home  of  her 
own.  Not  that  he  cared  for  this ;  he  was  his  own  master,  and 
could  marry  as  he  pleased  ;  and  although  he  would  have  liked  it 
better  had  her  circumstances  been  somewhat  different,  yet  he 
was  fairly,  and  for  him  deeply,  in  love  with  the  beautiful  girl 
before  him ;  and  in  the  passion  of  the  moment  all  minor  con- 
siderations were  thrust  into  the  background.  She  was  poor, 
certainly,  very  poor ;  and  still  little  else  than  a  child ;  singularly 
simple  and  unsophisticated  in  manner,  and  very  young  in  all  her 
thoughts  and  ways  ;  but  these  were  faults  she  would  soon  lose 
in  intercourse  with  the  world,  and  her  grace  and  beauty  would 
adorn  any  rank  in  which  she  was  placed.  And  he  could  give  her 
a  position  of  which  she  had  but  little  idea ;  he  could  offer  her 
wealth  and  everything  else  that  was  worth  having.  He  had 
done  so,  indeed,  and  she  had  refused  them;  though  he  could 
not  believe  that  she  was  really  serious  in  rejecting  him.  She 
was  only  shy,  or  wanted  to  make  the  most  of  her  power;  and 
yet  what  to  say  more  he  did  not  know.  He  had  been  most 
vehement  in  his  declarations  of  love,  and  she  had  turned  from 
him.  She  had  persisted  in  refusing  to  listen  to  him  ;  and  had 
seemed  so  anxious  for  him  to  leave  her,  that  he  might  almost 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE.  103 

have  imagined  she  wished  him  to  take  her  at  her  word,  had  not 
the  supposition  been  utterly  improbable.  And  even  now  she 
would  not  hear  him.  But  he  must  bring  her  to  know  her  own 
mind  before  she  left  him  j  and  while  she  was  looking  all  impa- 
tience and  entreaty  to  be  allowed  to  go,  he  still  kept  his  ground. 

*  Only  for  two  minutes ;  you  will  not  refuse  me  such  a  short 
time  as  that  1  I  can't,  I  won't  believe  you  are  so  indifferent  to 
me  as  you  wish  to  appear.  Forgive  my  saying  it,  but  your 
manner  to  me  has  been  such  as  to  give  me  encouragement,  and 
I  cannot  think  you  have  been  trifling  with  me,  that  you  have 
only  raised  hopes  which  you  meant  to  disappoint ' — 

But  that  was  all  Lisa  heard.  He  said  a  great  deal  more,  but 
she  did  not  hear  it.  Her  thoughts  were  all  engrossed  with  trying 
to  recall  what  she  had  said  and  done  to  give  him  reason  to  sup- 
pose she  cared  for  him.  She  certainly  had  talked  to  him  a  great 
deal,  and  she  wished  she  had  not  done  so.  It  was  true  he  had 
sought  her  out,  but  perhaps  if  she  had  liked  she  might  have 
avoided  him  more ;  she  might  have  said  less,  and  have  let  him 
see  that  she  did  not  wish  for  his  company.  But  she  had  been 
too  innocent  to  suspect  the  construction  that  might  be  put  upon 
her  words  and  actions,  and  was  horrified  now  to  think  how  he 
had  misinterpreted  her  conduct.  Was  it  really  true  that  she  had 
been  trifling  with  him,  that  she  had  actually  given  him  reason  to 
suppose  she  cared  for  him  1  It  was  such  a  dreadful  thing  to 
have  done ;  she  felt  quite  wretched  at  the  bare  idea  j  and  the 
mute  look  of  distress  and  perplexity  with  which  she  stood  re- 
garding him,  brought  Cunninghame  to  a  stand-still  in  his 
speech.  He  paused,  and  she  started — she  felt  she  must  say 
something. 

*  Will  you  listen  to  me,  Mr  Thorpe,  please  ] '  she  said,  trying 
to  collect  herself  and  to  speak  distinctly.  *  If  I  ever  said  or  did 
anything  to  make  you  believe  that — that — I  cared  for  you,  I 
was  very  wrong.  I  am  not  a  woman,  you  know,  and  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  such  things,  and  it  never  came  into  my  head  that 
you  might  misunderstand  me.  I  sum  very  sorry,'  she  repeated, 
in  the  tone  of  a  child  making  a  confession.  '  Won't  you  forgive 
me,  and  mayn't  I  go  now  V 

She  looked  up  at  him  beseechingly,  but  her  eye  fell  beneath 
the  glance  she  met,  and  she  coloured  deeply. 

^  Lisa,  you  are  positively  the  most  bewitching  little  creature  I 
ever  met  with.     But  what  makes  you  so  shy  and  hard  to  get  at  ? 


104  ATHERSTONE  PBIORY. 

Will  nothing  persuade  you  to  give  in,  and  tell  me  that  you  love 
meV 

*  No,  nothing ;  for  I  don't — I  don't  care  for  you  at  all,  Mr 
Thorpe,  and  I  never  shall.'  She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  very 
decidedly. 

He  laughed.  *  You  are  very  frank ;  but  if,  as  you  say,  you 
don't  care  for  me  now,  at  least,  Lisa,  you  may ' 

*  Not  Lisa,  if  you  please,'  she  said,  roused  to  anger  at  his  per- 
tinacity, and  at  what  she  considered  the  liberty  he  was  taking. 
*  Not  Lisa,  if  you  please ;  I  have  never  given  you  leave  to  call 
me  so.  I  don't  like  what  you  are  saying  to  me,  and  if  you  had 
any  proper  feeling,  you  wouldn't  go  on — you  wouldn't  keep  me 
here  when  you  know  it 's  disagreeable  to  me.  I  can't  say  any- 
thing plainer  than  I  have  said,  or  I  would.'  And  then,  seeing 
that  he  had  inadvertently  shifted  his  position  a  little,  she  slipped 
down  suddenly,  and  before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  pushed 
aside  a  small  table  that  was  in  her  way,  and  made  her  escape  into 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

In  her  haste  to  effect  her  retreat,  however,  poor  Lisa  ran  into 
a  danger  she  had  not  foreseen,  for  in  brushing  past  the  centre 
table,  she  happened  to  throw  down  a  candle  which  stood  there. 
It  fell  upon  the  floor  without  being  extinguished,  and  her  dress, 
which  was  a  very  thin  light  muslin,  swept  across  it,  and  caught 
fire  in  a  moment.  She  made  an  attempt  at  first  to  put  out  the 
flames  by  pressing  her  dress  tight  down  upon  them,  but  this 
only  made  them  spread  j  and  becoming  alarmed,  she  started  up 
wildly. 

^  O  Mary,  Mary,  save  me !  Where  are  you,  Mary  ] '  and 
with  a  shriek  of  frantic  terror,  she  rushed  from  the  room  ;  the  air 
from  the  open  window  playing  round  her^  and  fanning  the  fire 
high  up  her  skirt. 

Her  appearance  among  the  dancers  caused  the  greatest  con- 
sternation, and  a  cry  from  all  the  ladies  brought  the  music  to  a 
sudden  stop,  and  created  general  confusion.  Those  nearest  her 
fled  in  alarm,  and  by  their  efforts  to  escape,  increased  the  uni- 
versal panic,  and  even  the  gentlemen  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
presence  of  mind,  and  looked  as  if  paralysed  by  the  unexpected 
sight.  The  poor  child  thought  herself  deserted,  and  confused 
with  terror,  and  feeling  the  scorching  breath  of  the  flames  rising 
to  her  face  and  neck,  she  turned  in  despair — though  wKat  she 
meant  to  do,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say.     But  a  door  open- 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CATASTROPHE.  105 

ing  beside  her,  appeared  to  suggest  some  hope  of  escape,  and  too 
much  terrified  to  think,  she  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  through 
it,  when  her  progress  was  stopped  by  the  person  who  was  enter- 
ing. A  strong  arm  was  thrown  round  her,  which  held  her  back, 
and  then  the  heavy  folds  of  the  curtain  which  hung  from  the 
archway  were  flung  over  her,  and  she  found  herself  forced  down 
ui^n  an  ottoman  that  was  close  by. 

*  Sit  still,  Lisa;  you  are  safe  if  you  stay  where  you  are ;'  and 
almost  frenzied  with  terror  as  she  was,  the  mere  sound  of  that 
voice  reassured  her.  She  did  as  she  was  told,  and  Percy  kept  his 
firm  hold  of  her  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  drew 
the  curtain  closer  and  closer  round  her  burning  dress.  Some  of 
the  other  gentlemen  had  hastened  up  by  this  time,  and  with  their 
assistance  he  succeeded  in  extinguishing  the  flames.  Then  he 
released  her ;  and  pale  as  death,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
she  sat  up — a  deplorable  figure,  but,  with  the  exception  of  being 
a  little  scorched,  quite  unhurt.  The  whole  thing  had  been  only 
the  affair  of  a  minute  ;  but  quickly  as  it  was  all  over,  so  swift 
had  been  the  progress  of  the  flames,  that  her  escape  seemed  little 
else  than  a  miracle.  One  moment's  more  hesitation  on  the  part 
of  any  one  would  have  made  it  too  late  to  save  her,  if  not  from 
a  dreadful  death,  at  least  from  sufferings  of  which  none  could 
think  without  a  shudder.  She  was  too  much  confused  and 
terrified  to  be  able  to  think  or  speak,  and  could  only  cling  con- 
vulsively to  Mary,  and  sob  most  bitterly ;  while  Percy  stood  by, 
presenting  very  nearly  as  deplorable  a  spectacle  as  she  did,  his 
hair  and  clothes  singed,  and  having  in  one  respect  fared  even 
worse  than  herself,  for  his  right  hand  and  wrist  had  been  burnt 
before  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  flames  under. 

ISTo  one,  however,  knew  anything  of  this.  The  first  panic  was 
over,  but  there  was  so  much  talking,  so  much  crowding  round 
the  spot,  and  so  many  exclamations  from  all  the  ladies  as  they 
looked  at  the  crouching,  trembling  little  figure  before  them,  and 
everybody  had  so  many  questions  to  ask  as  to  how  the  accident 
had  happened,  that  nothing  else  was  thought  of.  But  Lisa  only 
cried  when  asked  how  she  had  contrived  to  set  herself  on  fire ; 
and  when  her  aunt  scolded  her  for  carelessness,  she  cried  still 
more,  but  could  give  no  explanations. 

*I  couldn't  help  it.  Mary,  please  take  me  away,  I  am 
so  frightened ; '  and  then,  happily  for  her,  Dr  Tennent 
came  in,  and  his  entrance  put  an  end  to  the  confusion    thai 


106  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

prevailed  in  the  room.  He  did  not  stop  to  ask  many  questions, 
even  putting  an  end,  without  much  ceremony,  to  his  wife's 
remarks. 

*  My  dear,  it  is  not  the  time  to  be  scolding  her,  whatever  she 
has  done.  Don't  you  see  the  poor  child  is  frightened  out  of  her 
senses  1  And  calling  for  a  shawl,  he  wrapped  Lisa  in  it,  and 
carried  her  off  without  more  ado,  Mary  following  him.  He 
took  her  to  her  own  room,  and  there  she  came  to  herself,  and 
her  hysterical  sobbing  ceased.  But  she  shuddered  so  much 
whenever  any  allusion  was  made  to  what  had  passed,  that  Mary 
thought  it  best  to  avoid  the  subject  altogether.  She  helped  her 
to  undress,  and  sat  by  her  side  for  a  long  time,  until  she  fell 
asleep.  But  it  was  a  restless,  troubled  sleep ;  she  kept  starting 
and  sobbing,  and  several  times  she  sat  up  with  a  cry  of  terror, 
shivering  with  her  fears  of  fancied  danger.  Once,  too,  she  cried 
bitterly. 

^  It 's  not  my  fault,  Percy ;  don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me,' 
she  said  in  imploring  accents.  *  You  don't  know  how  miserable 
I  am.'  And  then  she  started  up  suddenly.  *I  was  talking, 
wasn't  I,  Mary  1     Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ? ' 

*  Something  about  Percy,  I  believe.  But  let  me  shake  up 
your  pillow  for  you,  dear,  and  then  you  will  be  more  comfort- 
able.   I  should  like  to  see  you  in  really  a  sound  sleep.' 

Lisa  gave  a  long  sigh.  '  Yes,  I  wish  I  could  sleep ;  I  am  so 
tired,'  And  then,  as  she  lay  back  once  more,  *  Mary,  he  didn't 
get  hurt  while  he  was  saving  me,  did  he  ?  I  never  said  one  word 
to  Lim.'     She  burst  into  tears. 

*  My  dear  Lisa,  he  didn't  expect  it.  What  could  you  have 
said  at  such  a  time  ?  You  will  see  him  to-morrow,  and  then 
you  can  say  as  much  as  you  like.' 

Lisa  turned  her  head  away  with  another  very  long-drawn 
sigh.     *  And  he  was  not  hurt  1 '  she  said. 

Mary  hesitated.  *  Only  a  little ;  his  hand  was  rather  burnt ; 
nothing,  though,  to  make  yourself  uneasy  about,'  she  added, 
speaking  lightly.  '  Indeed,  dear  Lisa,  you  must  not  cry  in  that 
way.  Percy,  of  all  people,  isn't  one  to  think  much  of  a  thing 
like  that.  What  are  soldiers  fit  for  if  they  can't  bear  a  little 
pain  ] ' 

But  Lisa's  tears  came  from  a  mixture  of  feelings,  and  of  some 
of  them  Mary  guessed  nothing.  Tired  out  at  last,  however,  she 
sank  into  a  sleep  so  sound  and  quiet  that  her  cousin  felt  she 


^  SOME  DAYS  MUST  BE  DARK  AND  DREARy/  107 

might  safely  leave  her.  Drawing  the  curtains  close,  that  the 
daylight  which  was  beginning  to  dawn  might  not  disturb  her, 
Mary  stole  quietly  away,  and  shutting  the  door  behind  her, 
retreated  to  her  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

*  SOME    DAYS   M17ST    BE    DARK    AND    DREARY.' 

It  was  very  late  the  next  day  when  Lisa  awoke.  The  luncheon- 
bell  rang  some  minutes  before  she  was  dressed,  and  it  was  some 
little  time  before  she  could  summon  courage  to  go  down  to  the 
dining-room.  As  she  had  expected,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon 
her  as  she  entered,  and  looking  very  guilty,  she  stopped  before 
she  got  half  way  across  the  room.  But  Dr  Tennent,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  paused  in  his  carving,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

*  Well,  my  little  girl,  and  so  you  are  come  at  last  I  But  what 
are  you  standing  there  for,  looking  as  if  you  were  frightened 
still  ] '  and  then,  as  she  sprang  into  his  arms,  he  gave  her  a  long 
kiss.  *  Don't  you  know  how  glad  we  are  to  have  you  safe,  not 
hurt  in  the  least,  eh  ?  Indeed,  my  child,  it  is  a  great  mercy ; 
we  can't  be  too  thankful  you  have  had  such  an  escape.' 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  Lisa  gave  him  a  great  hug.  She  did 
not  mind  anything  after  that,  and  could  face  even  her  aunt's 
grave  looks  with  courage ;  but  when,  upon  making  her  way 
round  to  her  own  seat,  she  passed  the  window  where  Percy  was 
standing  with  some  letters  in  his  hand,  she  stopped  again.  He 
looked  constrained,  and  although  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  said 
something  about  hoping  she  was  quite  well,  and  had  got  over 
her  fright,  his  tone  was  stiff,  and  his  manner  altogether  different 
from  what  it  would  have  been  a  few  days  back.  The  change 
struck  her  most  painfully ;  she  gave  some  commonplace  answer, 
and  with  a  quivering  lip  walked  on  to  her  seat.  How  ungrate- 
ful he  must  think  her,  was  the  one  thought  filling  her  mind ;  of 


108  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

course,  ho  could  know  nothing  of  her  real  feelings,  he  could  not 
see  she  was  longing  to  speak,  and  could  not  find  words  to  do  so. 
But  she  would — she  would  not  let  this  go  on  any  longer — the 
moment  she  could  she  would  see  him  alone  and  thank  him  as 
she  wished. 

She  longed  for  dinner  to  be  over  to  find  the  opportunity  she 
wanted ;  and  the  fear  lest  he  might,  as  he  often  did,  leave  the 
room  before  they  had  finished,  kept  her  in  a  state  of  suspense 
which  completely  took  away  her  appetite.  She  wished  people 
would  eat  a  little  faster  and  not  talk,  and,  above  all,  that  they 
would  not  say  so  much  about  what  had  happened  the  night 
before. 

But  Mrs  Tennent,  for  one,  had  no  intention  of  leaving  the 
subject  alone.  She  was  exceedingly  annoyed  at  the  damage 
that  had  been  done  in  the  drawing-room,  and  desired  to  know 
how  it  had  all  happened,  as  she  supposed  Lisa  must  be  able  by 
this  time  to  give  some  account  of  it.  Some  one  else  might  have 
been  able  to  do  that,  but  he  was  silent,  of  course  ;  and  Lisa's 
hesitation  and  extreme  embarrassment  in  relating  her  story  did 
not  tend  to  remove  her  aunt's  displeasure. 

'  I  must  say  that  it  is  just  such  an  explanation  as  I  should 
have  expected  from  you,  Lisa.  Pray,  what  were  you  doing  there 
at  all]     Why  were  you  not  with  the  others ]'   " 

'  I  was  resting ;  at  least,  I  had  been ;  I  was  coming  away,' 
Lisa  murmured  in  confusion,  which  was  remarked  by  every  one 
at  the  table. 

Mrs  Tennent  looked  at  her.  '  It  is  very  strange,  there  is  some- 
thing I  don't  understand.  How  you  managed  to  be  so  careless 
passes  my  comprehension  !  You  have  no  consideration  at  all  for 
other  people's  feelings ;  the  Dacres  Avere  frightened  out  of  their 
senses  last  night ;  and  so  was  everybody  else.' 

*  Herself  included,'  said  Dr  Tennent,  kindly.  *  She  was  the 
one  to  be  frightened,  if  anybody  was ;  you  had  better  let  her 
forget  it  now  if  she  can.' 

*  Nonsense,  Dr  Tennent,'  said  his  wife,  angrily.  *  Don't  make 
her  more  careless  than  she  is  j  she  is  quite  bad  enough.  AVhen 
people  bring  misfortunes  on  themselves  they  can't  expect  much 
sympathy ;  it  is  those  who  suffer  by  their  carelessness  wlio  are 
to  be  pitied.  Poor  Mrs  Dacre  was  terribly  alarmed,  so  was 
Rose.  They  were  both  in  hysterics;  and  several  others  weio 
almost  as  bad.     We  had  quite  a  scene.' 


SOME  DAYB  MUST  BE  DARK  AND  DREARY.'         109 


*  Yes,  indeed,  I  can  vouch  for  the  truth  of  that,'  remarked 
Arthur,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  his  head. 

*  It  was  very  careless  of  yon,  Lisa,'  continued  Mrs  Tennent, 
ignoring  the  interruption.  *  I  hope  you  know  those  handsome 
curtains  are  quite  spoiled  1 ' 

'  That  was  Percy's  doing,  my  dear,'  said  the  doctor,  drily,  at 
which  there  was  a  general  laugh ;  while  Arthur  remarked  again 
that  Percy  had  not  waited,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  to  calcu- 
late the  cost  of  the  curtains.  *  He  should  have  stayed  to  find  an 
old  shawl  or  blanket  that  had  seen  good  wear,  and  was  not 
wanted.  By-the-by,  I  am  afraid,  Lisa,  we  can  t  congratulate 
you  upon  your  conduct  on  the  occasion.  Don't  you  know  that 
to  go  tearing  about  as  you  were  doing  was  the  worst  thing  pos- 
sible? Why  didn't  you  sit  still  till  somebody  came  to  help 
youf 

*  Nonsense,  Arthur ! '  said  Isabel.  '  She  ought  to  have  thrown 
herself  on  the  ground  ;  that  is  the  right  thing  to  do.  Running 
about  increases  the  draught,  and  makes  the  flames  draw  faster. 
You  might  have  thought  of  that,  Lisa.' 

*  I  was  so  frightened,'  Lisa  said,  in  a  low  voice,  ^  I  didn't 
think  of  anything.' 

'  Ah,  well,  the  case  is  a  proven  one,'  said  Arthur,  in  a  decided 
tone.  *  Both  you  and  Percy  were  wanting  in  presence  of  mind. 
And  now  the  best  thing  to  do  will  be  to  get  up  another  exhibi- 
tion this  evening,  and  Isabel  and  I  will  be  the  performers.  What 
do  you  say,  Isabel  ?  Shall  we  give  the  world  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  how  such  things  ought  to  be  managed?' 

But  here  Arthur  was  called  to  order  by  Mrs  Tennent,  who 
said  she  would  not  allow  any  joking  upon  the  subject.  At  which 
rebuke  Arthur  made  a  feint  of  looking  very  penitent,  and  then 
asked  for  another  slice  of  mutton. 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what,  though,  Lisa,'  he  began  a.gain,  while  he 
was  disposing  of  it — ^  I  '11  tell  you  what,  and  that  is,  that  you 
ought  to  be  eternally  grateful  to  Le  Balafr^ ;  if  you  did  what 
you  ought,  you  'd  tell  him  so  in  public.  It  is  my  firm  opinion 
you  haven't  even  given  him  a  civil  "  thank  you." ' 

Lisa  was  silent,  but  her  head  was  bent,  and  he  could  not  see 
her  averted  face. 

*  I  don't  understand  it,'  he  went  on.  *  I  never  was  more 
astonished  in  my  life  than  to  find  that  you  and  he  know  no  more 
of  each  other  than  you  did  when  I  went  away.     But  you  must 


110  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

give  in  now ;  even  if  you  can't  come  to  thinking  him  good-look- 
ing, you  must  end  by  liking  him.  Gratitude  alone,  if  nothing 
else,  will  bring  you  to  that/ 

There  was  no  reply  still  from  Lisa ;  but  unfortunately  for  her 
this  speech  was  overheard  by  Susan,  who  was  quite  ready  to  make 
her  comments  on  it.  *  I  don't  think  gratitude  will  make  Lisa 
like  Percy,'  she  remarked,  sapiently.  *  She  always  said  she  didn't 
like  him,  and  knew  she  never  should.  She  told  me  once  he  was 
so  ugly  she  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him/  And  although  this 
communication  was  not  intended  for  everybody,  it  was  sufficiently 
audible  to  be  heard  by  any  one  who  had  not  their  attention  other- 
wise engaged. 

*  O  Susan  !'  was  all  that  poor  Lisa  could  exclaim,  the  crimson 
colour,  rushing  to  her  face,  and  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 

*  Why,  Lisa,  you  said  so ;  you  know  you  did.' 

'  Susan,'  said  her  mother  gravely,  *  if  Lisa  chooses  to  make  rude 
speeches,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  repeat  them.  Don't  let  me 
hear  anything  more  of  that  sort.'  And  Susan,  abashed,  returned 
to  her  dinner. 

But  Lisa  could  not  raise  her  head  again.  From  one  glance 
she  had  taken  she  saw  that  what  had  passed  had  been  overheard 
by  Percy,  and  between  shame  and  wretchedness  she  felt  over- 
whelmed. That  one  of  her  thoughtless,  foolish  speeches,  made  so 
long  ago,  should  have  been  repeated  just  when  he  had  done  so 
much  for  her,  was  dreadful.  Nor  was  it  true.  But  of  course  he 
could  not  tell  that.  Perhaps  he  fancied  they  were  her  thoughts 
still ;  and  in  bitter  self-reproach  Lisa  upbraided  herself  for  that 
and  every  other  idle  thing  she  had  ever  said  of  him.  She 
scarcely  heard  a  word  of  what  was  going  on,  and  the  first  thing 
that  roused  her  was  something  her  uncle  was  saying.  He  was 
looking  at  his  watch. 

*  Well,  Percy,  if  we  want  to  catcb  the  2.10  train,  we  had 
better  be  starting.'     And  he  got  up. 

'  Where  are  they  going,  Arthur?'  she  said  then. 

'  Going  ?  To  London,  of  course.  At  least  Percy  is.  I  don't 
know  for  what ;  business  of  some  sort,  I  believe.  He  '11  be  away 
two  or  three  weeks,  I  think.' 

Two  or  three  weeks  I  The  words  fell  like  lead  on  Lisa's  heart. 
To  be  all  that  time  without  seeing  him,  without  speaking  to  him, 
or  hearing  him  speak !  And  to  let  him  leave  without  saying 
one  word,  without  thanks  of  any  kind ! 


^SOME  DAYS  MUST  BE  BARK  AND  DREARY.'    Ill 

She  sat  for  a  moment  or  two,  silent  and  very  miserable  ;  but 
little  George  came  trotting  into  the  room,  and  caught  hold  of  her 
dress,  and  that  diverted  her  attention.  She  took  him  up  in  her 
arms,  and  as  he  began  to  rock  himself  backwards  and  forwards 
with  great  energy,  and  call  out  *  gee,  gee,'  she  discovered  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  horse  and  carriage  at  the  hall  door,  and 
would  like  to  have  a  nearer  view  of  them.  So  she  carried  him 
out  into  the  hall  that  he  might  look  at  them  through  the  window, 
and  while  she  was  standing  there  Percy  came  out  of  the  dining- 
room.  Whether  he  had  seen  her  was  not  certain,  but  he  came 
up  to  the  window  where  she  was,  and  Georgie  in  great  delight 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  go  to  him.  He,  at  least,  was  too  young 
to  mind  plain  looks  in  those  who  would  play  with  and  amuse 
him ;  and  his  tall  grave  brother  had  long  since  won  his  heart  as 
only  one  who  was  naturally  fond  of  children  could  do. 

*  No,  my  little  man.  I  can't  take  you  to-day.  I  haven't  time  ; 
we  must  wait  till  I  come  back.'  He  stooped  to  kiss  the  child. 
*  Good-bye,  Lisa,'  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

There  was  no  resentment  in  look  or  voice — no  trace  even  of 
annoyance — at  what  had  in  truth  cut  him  to  the  heart.  For, 
plain  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  it  was  one  thing  to  recognise  this 
as  a  fact,  to  which  he  could,  as  a  sensible  man,  be  perfectly  in- 
different, and  quite  another  to  find  that  it  came  between  him 
and  the  being  whom  he  idolised.  For  if  ever  man  loved  woman, 
he  loved  Lisa  Kennedy — with  all  the  passionate  energy  with 
which  natures  that  are  supposed  to  be  cold  so  often  love ;  and 
it  was  a  bitter,  wringing  disappointment  to  find  that  the  hope 
which  he  had  cherished  of  pleasing  her  was  over  now  —  quite 
over  and  gone.  He  was  not  the  one  to  win  her;  some  one 
else  must  do  so  —  some  one  handsomer,  gayer,  more  like 
her  own  bright  self  —  Cunninghame  Thorpe,  perhaps.  And 
he  did  not  blame  her  that  she  preferred  another  to  himself ;  but 
still  it  was  very  hard  to  give  her  up ;  and  far  down  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart  there  was  an  aching,  writhing  sense  of  disap- 
pointed hopes,  and  many  wounded  and  bitter  feelings.  There 
was  little  sign,  however,  to  tell  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind ; 
only  his  voice  was  not  quite  steady  as  he  said  good-bye.  But 
Lisa  was  too  much  agitated  to  notice  this ;  when  she  tried  to 
speak  she  could  not ;  and  yet  the  opportunity  she  had  wished  for 
was  going,  and  she  had  not  used  it. 

*  Good-bye '  was  all  she  could  say  in  answer ;  and  he  turned 


112  ATHERSTONB  PRIORY. 

away.     And  then,  with  the  sense  that  he  was  really  going,  hev 
faltering  resolution  returned. 

*  Percy  ! '  Her  voice  was  very  low,  but  he  looked  round,  and 
seeing  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  came  back  to  the  window. 

'  You  called  me,  Lisji,  didn't  you  1  Do  you  want  anything] ' 
But  at  that  moment  Mr  Thorpe  made  his  appearance  in  the  hall, 
and  the  time  for  explanation  was  gone. 

*  No,  thank  you,  nothing.'  And  she  hid  her  fcice  on  Georgie^s 
curly  head  that  her  tears  might  not  be  seen.  Dr  Tennent  came 
out,  and  the  next  minute  they  were  gone.  The  carriage  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street  and  they  were  out  of  sight.  Carrying 
her  charge  back  to  the  dining-room,  Lisa  set  him  down  among 
the  others,  and  slipping  through  the  library  to  avoid  Mr  Thorpe, 
who  she  knew  was  lying  in  wait  for  her  where  she  had  left  him, 
ran  up  the  back  stairs  and  flew  to  her  own  room,  where,  throw- 
ing herself  on  her  bed,  she  gave  way  to  a  passionate  burst  of 
grief. 

It  was  all  over,  and  he  was  gone,  gone  without  a  word  from 
her ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  w^ith  him  all  the  sunshine  of  her  life  had 
gone  too.  It  mattered  little  that  in  three  weeks'  time  he  would 
be  back — she  lived  only  in  the  present,  and  everything  was  a 
blank  now.  And  by-and-by  it  would  be  worse,  for  he  would  be 
going,  not  for  a  few  weeks  only,  but  for  very  long  ;  perhaps  with 
years  between  each  visit.  She  might  be  away,  and  never,  never 
meet  him  ;  and  the  dull  aching  sense  of  wretchedness  in  poor 
Lisa's  heart  grew  deeper  at  the  thought — too  deep  at  last  for 
tears. 

And  he  knew  nothing  of  it  all.  He  was  journeying  to  London 
on  that  hot  summer's  day,  little  dreaming  that  while  he  sat  mus- 
ing sadly  over  his  shattered  hopes,  she  was  shedding  bitter  tears 
in  her  silent  room,  and  that  in  her  inmost  heart  the  long  yearn- 
ing cry  always  going  up  was,  ^  0  Percy  !  Percy  !  if  you  would 
only  come  back ;  and  if  I  could  only  make  things  as  they  were 
a  little  time  ago.     I  was  so  happy  then  1 ' 


baffled;  113 

CHAPTER  XVl. 

BAFFLED. 

The  first  change  that  took  place  after  Percy  left  was  Mr  Thorpe^s 
departure.  He  had  made  himself  so  generally  agreeable  that  his 
going  was  a  source  of  regret  to  nearly  every  one.  Not  to  Lisa, 
however.  She  was  quite  tired  of  trying  to  avoid  him,  and  of  in- 
venting pretexts  for  being  engaged  with  something  else  whenever 
he  made  his  appearance ;  and  it  was  an  intense  relief  to  her  to 
think  he  was  really  going. 

She  had  hard  work,  however,  the  last  day,  to  keep  out  of  his 
way,  so  determined  was  he  to  make  the  opportunity  he  was  seek- 
ing, and  oblige  her  to  listen  to  him  once  more ;  but  bent  as  he 
was  upon  this,  she  was  equally  bent  upon  not  hearing  him.  He 
did  not  get  a  glimpse  of  her  all  the  morning  ;  but  after  luncheon 
she  was  sent  into  the  garden  by  her  aunt  to  gather  some  flowers 
for  the  dinner-table  that  evening.  It  was  an  opportunity  too 
good  to  be  lost ;  and  when  Mrs  Tennent  and  Elinor,  whom  he 
had  promised  to  attend  on  some  shopping  expedition,  went  up- 
stairs to  put  on  their  bonnets,  he  walked  out  after  Lisa,  who  was 
very  busy  among  the  flower-beds. 

She  pretended  at  first  not  to  see  him,  and  went  flitting  about  here 
and  there  in  all  directions,  contriving  to  lead  him  a  dance  all  round 
the  garden  before  he  could  come  up  with  her ;  and  when  he  did 
overtake  her,  she  discovered  suddenly  that  the  roses  were  pricking 
her  fingers,  and  remembered  she  had  left  her  gloves  in  the  house. 
He  wanted  to  be  allowed  to  cut  the  flowers  for  her,  and  when 
she  declined  this,  offered  to  fetch  the  gloves  if  she  would  tell 
him  where  they  were  to  be  found ;  an  offer  which  was  perfectly 
useless,  for  when  did  Lisa  ever  know  where  anything  of  hers  was 
to  be  found  1  She  had  not  an  idea  now ;  and  as  she  said  so, 
began  to  walk  away. 

*  Can't  you  give  me  two  minutes.  Miss  Kennedy?  I  have 
been  wishing  all  day  to  speak  to  you.  You  are  in  no  hurry, 
are  you  V 

*  Yes,  I  am.  The  sun  is  very  hot,  and  I  want  to  finish.  I 
can't  stay.'     And  off  she  went,  leaving  her  basket  and  flowers 

H 


114  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

upon  the  ground.  But  although  he  mounted  guard  diligently 
over  these  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  she  did  not 
return  ;  and  Mrs  Tennent  and  Elinor  being  ready  then  for  their 
■walk,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  place,  having  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  Lisa  and  Prince  come  out  by  one  door  as  he  went  in 
at  another. 

When  he  went  into  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  that  evening, 
he  found  her  sitting  at  one  of  the  windows  on  a  low  stool,  playing 
at  draughts  with  Constance,  but  so  much  taken  up  with  her 
game  that  she  did  not  notice  his  entrance.  Nor  could  he  get 
near  her,  there  being  several  ladies  present,  to  whom  he  was 
obliged  to  give  his  attention,  and  Lisa,  not  being  *  introduced,' 
kept  in  the  background.  He  considered  it  an  especial  bore  to 
have  to  devote  himself  to  the  Miss  Frasers,  and  do  duty  at  the 
piano  half  the  evening,  while  all  he  could  see  of  Lisa  was  an 
occasional  glimpse  when  some  one  happened  to  move,  or  perhaps 
the  fluttering  of  her  dress  as  she  passed  across  the  room. 

A  very  simple  white  dress  it  was,  of  the  commonest  description, 
but  she  somehow  attracted  every  one's  attention ;  and  her  aunt 
remarked  in  grave  silence  the  beautiful  plaits  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  the  scarlet  geranium  which  with  two  or  three  green 
leaves  she  had  placed  in  her  waist-band.  Later  in  the  evening, 
when  she  was  going  to  the  piano  to  take  part  in  some  duet, 
Cunninghame,  who  had  been  admiring  her  every  time  he  could 
catch  sight  of  her,  and  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  a  white 
dress  with  just  that  little  bit  of  colour  about  it  was  the  very 
prettiest  thing  any  lady  could  wear,  overheard  a  peremptory 
command  to  her  from  Mrs  Tennent  to  ^  throw  away  those 
flowers.' 

'  Take  them  out  directly,  Lisa,  and  don't  ornament  yourself 
again  like  that.  I  dislike  exceedingly  to  see  you  thinking  so 
much  of  your  dress.  Throw  them  away,  and  don't  be  so  silly 
again,  if  you  please.' 

There  was  a  flash  in  Lisa's  eyes  at  this  speech  ;  but  she  took 
the  flower  and  the  leaves  from  her  belt,  and  tossing  them  on 
the  floor,  walked  on  to  the  piano.  She  did  not  see  that  Cun- 
ninghame picked  them  up  as  they  fell,  and  when  he  stood  by 
their  side  while  she  and  Elinor  were  playing  their  duet,  she  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  music,  and  resolutely  declined  giving  him 
any  of  her  attention.  When  they  had  finished,  and  she  rose  to 
go,  he  stopped  her  to  ask  for  some  favourite  piece  of  his. 


BAFFLED.  115 

*  No,  I  am  tired/  she  said,  and  away  she  walked.  He  could 
not  get  near  her  again  till  she  was  leaving  the  room  for  the 
night,  when  he  happened  to  be  standing  near  the  door,  and 
stepped  forward  to  open  it  for  her.  She  turned  to  him  then 
very  gravely. 

'Good-bye,  Mr  Thorpe.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant 
journey  to-morrow.' 

It  was  provoking  that  some  one  .should  call  him  just  then,  for 
he  had  planted  himself  there  on  purpose,  intending  to  follow  her, 
and  now  this  interruption  detained  him.  It  was  only  for  a 
moment,  but  it  was  quite  enough  to  give  her  the  start  of  him, 
and  when  he  got  into  the  hall  it  was  empty.  He  could  only  see 
a  glimpse  of  something  white  vanishing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  hear  a  door  close  in  the  distance.  The  sound  elicited  some 
exclamation  more  expressive  than  polite  from  him,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  he  stood  still,  as  if  not  quite  realising  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  so  completely  baffled,  and  by  such  a  child,  too  ! 

The  next  day  he  left  Atherstone  with  Ralph  and  Janet,  who 
were  also  returning  to  Gainsford  j  and  when  Lisa  knew  he 
was  gone,  she  celebrated  the  event  by  an  impromptu  little 
dance,  got  up  for  her  own  edification  and  that  of  Prince,  who 
sat  on  his  hind  legs  and  watched  her  with  his  bright  eyes 
twinkling  inquiringly  through  his  shaggy  hair.  He  was  evidently 
puzzled  to  account  for  her  delight,  and  quite  as  much  so  to  know 
why,  in  the  midst  of  her  dance,  she  stopped  short  suddenly  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  floor,  covered  him  with  kisses.  His  rough 
coat  was  very  wet  afterwards,  and  when  some  one  came  into  the 
room,  she  got  up  in  a  great  hurry  and  ran  away. 

A  few  days  after  Mr  Thorpe  left,  it  was  arranged  that  Lisa, 
with  Lane  and  the  younger  children,  should  be  sent  to  Copelands 
for  a  few  days.  The  weather  that  summer  was  unusually  close 
and  hot,  even  for  August,  and  there  was  not  much  fresh  air  to 
be  had  at  the  Priory.  Mrs  Pye  would  take  them  in,  as  she  had 
often  done  on  similar  occasions ;  and  they  would  all  of  them  be 
the  better  for  a  little  run  in  the  country,  especially  Lisa,  who 
was  not  so  well  as  usual,  and  was  looking  pale  and  listless. 
And  Dr  Tennent,  when  he  settled  this,  patted  his  niece  on  the 
head,  and  told  her  '  she  would  like  that — she  was  very  fond  of 
Mrs  Pye,  he  knew — and  a  visit  to  Copelands  would  be  a  treat 
to  her.'  And  Lisa  did  not  say  '  No.'  When  he  was  so  kind  it 
would  have  seemed  ungrateful  to  tell  him  she  did  not  want  to 


116  ATHERSTONE  PEIORY. 

go.  And  yet  that  was  tlie  truth,  for  in  two  days  Percy  was  to 
be  at  home  agaili.  Mary  had  heard  that  very  mornmg  that  he 
meant  to  come  back  on  Thursday,  and  this  was  Tuesday;  and 
although  she  was  not  sure  whether  she  most  wished  or  dreaded 
to  see  him,  she  was  quite  certain  she  did  not  wish  to  be  away  at 
Copelands  just  when  he  was  coming  back. 

But  she  could  not  say  so ;  and  that  evening  she  and  Mary 
walked  over  to  see  Mrs  Pye,  and  settle  all  things  for  their  going. 
There  was  a  lurking  hope  in  her  mind  all  the  way  out,  that  for 
some  reason  or  other  the  arrangement  might  not  be  practicable  ; 
but  this  hope  was  disappointed.  Mrs  Pye  was  delighted  at  the 
idea  of  having  them,  and  promised  to  take  the  greatest  care  of 
Miss  Lisa,  whose  pale  face  excited  her  deepest  commiseration. 
Not  that  Lisa  was  pale  when  these  remarks  were  made,  for  they 
brought  the  colour  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  disliked  them  so 
much  that  she  ran  away  into  the  farmyard  to  escape  such  un- 
welcome pity,  and  did  not  emerge  from  it  until  Mary  was  ready 
to  return. 

*  Which  day  are  we  to  go*?'  was  her  first  question  then  when 
they  had  left  the  house. 

*0n  Thursday,  dear.  Mrs  Pye  would  have  had  you  to-morrow; 
but  I  knew  Lane  would  be  busy,  so  I  settled  the  day  after. 
You  are  to  go  the  first  thing  after  breakfast.' 

Thursday  !  the  very  day  he  was  to  come. 

She  said  nothing,  but  it  seemed  as  if  Mary  must  have  guessed 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  for  she  added — 

*  You  will  be  sorry  to  miss  Percy  when  he  comes  back.  But 
you  will  see  him  soon,  I  daresay ;  he  is  sure  to  get  over  to  Cope- 
lands  when  he  hears  you  are  there.' 

Lisa's  reply  to  this  was  not  very  intelligible,  and  all  the  way 
home  she  hardly  said  a  word,  but  paced  wearily  by  her  cousin's 
side  along  the  dusty  road,  as  if  she  had  no  spirit  for  talking. 
And  yet  it  was  a  very  pleasant  evening,  just  such  a  one  as  she 
enjoyed  in  general.  The  sun  had  gone  down  some  time  before 
in  a  sea  of  purple  and  gold,  and  in  the  western  sky  there  were 
still  traces  of  the  glow  he  had  left  behind,  but  the  twilight  was 
coming  on  and  the  dew  was  beginning  to  fall.  The  air  w\as  fresh 
and  moist,  and  laden  with  the  scent  of  honeysuckles  and  travel- 
ler's joy,  and  the  hedges  were  ringing  with  the  wild,  cheery  chirp 
of  countless  grasshoppers.  It  was  just  what  she  would  have  liked 
any  other  evening,  but  she  did  not  care  for  it  now ;  and  she  lagged 


BAFFLED.  117 

on  with  sucli  evident  signs  of  fatigue,  that  Mary,  though  longing 
to  hasten  her  steps,  restrained  them  out  of  pity  to  her.  It  was 
getting  quite  dark  w^hen  they  reached  the  Priory ;  so  dark,  that 
when  they  went  in,  Lisa,  who  w^as  first,  ran  against  some  one  in 
the  hall.  She  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  could  just  make  out  a 
very  tall  dark  figure  in  the  dim  light.  Dim  as  it  was,  it  Avas 
enough  to  enable  her  to  recognise  the  form. 

'  Why,  Percy  ! '  she  exclaimed ;  and  in  the  strange  flutter  of 
surprise  and  joy  that  came  over  her,  her  voice  hardly  sounded 
natural.     Perhaps  he  thought  he  had  startled  her. 

*Is  that  you,  Lisa?  I  didn't  see  you  coming.  I  hope  I 
didn't  frighten  you.' 

^  Oh,  no,  not  at  all ; '  and  then,  as  Mary  hastened  up  with 
exclamations  of  astonishment  and  pleasure,  she  passed  on  into 
tlie  drawing-room  without  saying  any  more.  She  had  meant  to 
meet  him  naturally ;  ever  since  he  went,  she  had  been  settling 
what  she  should  say  and  do  when  she  saw  him  again  ;  and  she 
had  intended  to  be  as  like  her  old  self  as  possible.  But  some- 
how this  beginning  was  not  successful — she  w^ould  not  at  any 
other  time  have  walked  away  without  waiting  to  ask  what  had 
brought  him  back  sooner  than  he  expected ;  and  when  it  was 
too  late  she  was  vexed  with  herself  for  having  done  so.  She 
stood  by  the  table  round  which  all  the  others  w^ere  gathered 
talking,  angry  with  herself  for  being  so  stupid,  and  yet  unable 
to  summon  up  courage  to  speak  even  a  few  words  to  him. 
Arthur,  by  whose  side  she  was  standing,  presently  turned  to 
her  with  a  smile — 

'  Will  you  like  to  be  introduced  to  a  new  acquaintance,  Lisa  ? 
Some  one  you  have  never  seen  before.  Let  me  have  the  pleasure 
of  introducing  himi  Major  Tennent,  you  were  inquiring  for 
Miss  Kennedy  just  now,  and  when  you  heard  she  was  exploring 
the  roads  between  here  and  Copelands  under  the  protection  only 
of  a  female  relative,  you  seemed  to  have  serious  fears  for  her 
safety.  I  am  happy  to  tell  you  they  were  without  foundation, 
for  she  has  escaped  the  highwaymen  and  gipsies  supposed  to 
infest  this  part  of  the  country,  and  is  ready  now  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  Allow  me,  therefore — — '  A  grand  flourish  fol- 
lowed. 

Lisa  looked  bcAvildered. 

^  Major  Tennent !' 

^  Yes,  Major  Tennent.    Major  Tennent,  Koyal  Engineers.    My 


118  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

dear  Lisa,  I  hope  you  don't  generally  look  so  "  daft ''  when  you 
are  introduced  to  people.  Is  there  anything  so  extraordinary  in 
his  having  got  his  majority  V 

Lisa  coloured.  *I  didn't  know  he  had/  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

*  Of  course  not;  he  didn't  know  it  himself  till  yesterday.  But 
now  that  you  do  know  it,  where  are  your  congratulations  1  Don't 
you  think  he  deserves  his  honours?  It  looks  like  it,  as  you 
can't  tell  him  you  are  glad  he  has  got  them.' 

'  I  am  glad,  though — very  glad,'  Lisa  murmured;  and  although 
the  words  were  not  addressed  to  Percy,  he  heard  them. 

^  Thank  you,  Lisa  '/  and  his  manner  was  so  like  old  times, 
that  for  a  moment  she  forgot  everything  but  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  his  voice  again,  and  looked  up  with  a  smile.  And  then 
she  shrank  away  vexed  with  herself,  that  she  could  not  meet  his 
eye  without  colouring.  How  silly  it  was  of  her  to  be  so  stupid 
and  conscious  I  Was  she  never  to  be  able  to  meet  him  like  any 
one  else  1  never  to  hear  him  speak  without  her  cheek  flushing, 
and  her  heart  throbbing  ?  And  she  had  meant  to  be  natural,  to 
show  no  change  at  all  in  her  manner  to  him. 

*  A  good  beginning  this,  certainly,'  thought  poor  Lisa,  as  she 
felt  her  burning  face,  and  found  how  unsteady  her  hand  was 
when  she  tried  to  work  that  evening.  *  It 's  fortunate  for  me  I'm 
going  to  Copelands,  and  no  one  will  see  me  there ;  but  oh,  how 
I  wish  that  Janet  had  never  said  that !  How  I  wish  I  were 
a  child  still,  and  had  never  had  such  thoughts !  I  was  happy 
before  they  came,  and  now  I'm  not !     I'm  miserable  !' 


UNDER  THE  LIME-TREES.  119 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

UNDER   THE   LIME-TREES. 

*  And  you  won't  come  out  then,  Mary  V 

*  No,  dear,  I  don't  think  I  can.  I  will  come  to  you  if  I  have 
time  before  tea ;  you  will  be  in  the  green- walk,  I  suppose?' 

*  Yes,  I  am  going  to  take  my  work  there  ; '  and  Lisa  closed  the 
door  of  her  cousin's  room  and  went  down-stairs. 

There  had  been  a  thunderstorm  the  night  before,  which  had 
cleared  the  air,  and  the  day  was  bright  and  breezy.  White  fleecy 
clouds  were  drifting  over  the  blue  sky,  borne  across  by  the 
summer  wind ;  and  sunlight  and  shade  played  by  turns  on  tree 
and  shrub  and  lawn.  Very  beautiful  it  all  looked,  but  Lisa 
must  have  had  her  thoughts  engaged,  for  she  hardly  glanced 
around,  as  with  head  bent  down,  and  slow  and  thoughtful  foot- 
steps, she  made  her  way  into  the  green-walk. 

She  had  sauntered  almost  to  the  end  without  once  raising  her 
eyes,  and  might  have  returned  in  the  same  way  had  not  a  short 
bark  from  her  dog  made  her  look  up ;  and  then,  to  her  no  little 
embarrassment,  she  discovered  that  she  had  come  upon  her 
cousin  Percy,  who  was  stretched  upon  one  of  the  long  garden 
benches  in  the  walk.  He  was  as  unaware  of  her  presence  as  she 
had  been  of  his,  and  as  he  had  his  back  to  her,  and  his  hat 
drawn  over  his  eyes,  she  might  have  escaped  unobserved,  had 
not  Prince  attracted  his  attention  by  jumping  upon  him.  He 
raised  his  hat,  and  seeing  Lisa  standing  there  with  a  deep  blush 
upon  her  face,  uncertain  whether  to  go  or  stay,  he  got  up,  looking 
for  the  moment  almost  as  much  embarrassed  as  she  did.  She  was 
the  first  to  recover  herself,  and  to  break  the  awkward  silence. 

*  What  a  shame  of  us  to  disturb  you  !'  she  said ;  ^  but  I  didn't 
know  you  were  here.     I  am  very  sorry.' 

*  You  didn't  disturb  me.  Don't  let  me  drive  you  away,  Lisa ; 
I  am  not  going  to  stay  ;'  and  he  took  up  a  book  that  was  lying 
on  the  bench.     'You  were  coming  to  sit  here,  were  you  not  V 

And  thinking  she  would  rather  be  alone,  he  began  to  w^alk 
away. 

'Are  you  obliged  to  goV  she  said,  timidly. 


120  '  XTHEKSTONE  PPJORY. 

^Not  if  you  wish  me  to  stay,  Lisa/  and  lie  turned  back 
eagerly.     '  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ] ' 

^jSTo,  it's  not  that/  She  hesitated,  and  after  two  or  three 
attempts  to  speaJc,  burst  into  tears.  *  Percy,  I  don't  know  what 
you  must  have  thought  of  me  all  this  time.  You  know  wdiat 
you  did  for  me,  and  I  have  never  yet  said  a  word  of  thanks  to 
you.  You  must  have  thought  me  so  ungrateful.'  Her  voice 
w^as  unsteady,  and  she  could  not  go  on. 

*  Ungrateful !  No,  never,  Lisa !  Who  could  tliink  such  a 
thing  of  you  V  he  said,  with  a  long  Avistful  glance  at  her  tearful 
and  half-averted  face.  *  I  wanted  no  thanks.  It  was  happiness 
enough  for  me  to  know  you  were  safe — that  I  had  saved  you. 
I  did  not  want  anything  else.'  It  was  said  hurriedly,  but  the 
low,  earnest  voice  made  Lisa  tremble. 

'I  have  been  very  silly,  silly  in  a  great  many  things  lately,' 
she  said,  colouring  a  good  deal,  and  with  the  tears  still  in  hf^.- 
eyes ;  *  but  I  do  thank  you,  Percy,  and  much,  much  more  than 
I  can  tell  you :  I  shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  I  wish 
you  could  know  all  I  feel  about  it.' 

He  smiled.  ^What  else  could  I  have  done,  Lisa?  you  did 
not  expect  me  to  stand  by  and  see  you  burnt  to  death  without 
trying  to  help  you  ?  No  man  in  the  world  would  have  done 
such  a  thing.' 

^  Perhaps  not.  I  don't  know.  Nobody  did  help  me,*  said 
Lisa,  with  a  shudder  at  the  recollection  of  those  terrible 
moments.  '  They  might  have  done  so  afterwards,  but  then 
it  would  have  been  too  late.  You  were  the  only  person, 
Percy,  who  did  what  you  could  directly.  You  may  say  what 
you  like,  but  I  shall  think  of  it  as  long  as  I  live,  and  I  shall 
always  feel  I  can  never  thank  you  half  enough.  And  you 
don't  know  how  sorry  I  am  about  that.'  She  looked  at  his 
hand  as  she  spoke. 

He  looked  at  it  too,  and  smiled  again. 

^  It 's  not  worth  being  sorry  for,  Lisa ;  I  can  use  it  again 
nearly  as  well  as  ever,  you  see.'  And  then,  as  if  he  thought 
that  enough  had  been  said  upon  the  subject,  be  added,  rather 
abruptly,  '  And  that  w^as  all  you  wanted  me  for  1 ' 

*  Yes.  I  couldn't  go  away  and  let  you  go  on  thinking 
me  ungrateful ;  and  we  are  going  to  Cop  elands  to-morrow^, 
you  know.' 

*  Yes,  so  Mary  told  me ;  she  sa^^s   you  have  not  been  we\\ 


UNDER  THE  LIME-TREES.  121 

lately.  I  liope  the  change  will  do  you  good,  Lisa ;  I  am 
sure  you  want  it/  There  was  not  much  in  the  words,  but 
a  great  deal  in  the  tone.  Lisa  sat  down  on  the  bench, 
and  took  out  her  work  to  hide  her  agitation,  remarking  at 
the  same  time  that  she  didn't  think  there  was  much  the 
matter  with  her,  only  the  hot  weather  had  made  her  head 
ache.  Percy,  who  seemed  to  be  making  up  his  mind  to  say 
something,  stood  by  her  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

'  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  see  much  more  of  each  other, 
he  began  at  last  with  evident  effort.  *You  go  to  Copelands 
to-morrow,  and  I  shall  only  be  here  a  day  or  two  longer*?  myself. 
I  am  leaving  on  Saturday.' 

*  Leaving  ! '  The  w^ork  fell  from  her  hands,  and  she  looked 
up  with  a  white  face. 

'  Yes,  I  am  going  to  Scotland ;  and  I  shall  be  away  two 
or  three  months,  most  likely  as  long  as  my  leave  lasts.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  return  here.' 

There  was  a  long  silence ;  Lisa's  head  was  bent  over  her 
work  again,  and  she  made  no  reply.  Perhaps  he  had  hoped 
to  hear  her  express  some  regret  that  he  was  going.  A  short 
time  ago  she  would  have  done  so,  but  now  she  was  silent ; 
the  open,  w^arm-hearted  Lisa  whom  he  had  known  so  short 
a  time  back  was  changed,  and  her  apparent  indifference  cut 
him  to  the  heart.     After  a  pause  of  some  minutes  he  went  on — 

'  The  last  few  months  have  been  very  happy,  so  happy 
that  I  am  afraid  I  was  beginning  to  care  too  much  for  my 
home  ;  and  that  does  not  do  for  a  soldier ;  he  has  no  business 
to  care  for  one  place  more  than  another,  so  it  is  quite  as  well 
I  should  be  going.' 

No  answer  still  from  Lisa.  Her  head  was  bent  lower  and 
lower,  but  she  made  no  attempt  to  speak. 

*  I  shall  always  think  of  you,'  he  added ;  *  and  wherever  you 
are,  or  whatever  you  are  doing,  I  hope  I  shall  always  hear 
you  are  happy.  And,  Lisa,  can  we  not  say  good-bye  as  friends] 
Something  has  come  between  us  lately ;  but  whatever  it  has 
been,  can  we  not  forget  it  now,  and  make  the  most  of  this  last 
day  1     It  may  be  very  long  before  we  have  another  together.' 

Poor  Lisa  !  With  those  last  words  her  hard-fought  struggle 
came  to  an  end,  and  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  such  bitter 
weeping  that  Percy  was  startled,  though  he  was  far  from 
conjecturing  the  true  cause  of  her  distress.     To  all  his  entreaties 


122  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

to  tell  him  what  was  distressing  her  she  only  answered,  *It 
was  not  his  fault ;  she  was  foolish,  that  was  all.' 

*  That  is  all !  but,  Lisa,  I  must  surely  have  said  something. 
You  would  not  be  in  such  distress  if  nothing  were  the  matter. 
What  is  it  ?  Won't  you  tell  me  1 '  And  then,  as  she  was 
still  silent,  a  new  light  broke  in  upon  him.  He  sat  for  some 
moments  doubtful  and  irresolute,  but  at  last  he  said — 

'  Lisa,  can  it  really  be  anything  to  you  whether  I  go  or 
stay  ?     Is  it  that  is  making  you  unhappy  1 ' 

He  was  trembling  between  hope  and  fear ;  but  even  then  she 
could  give  no  answer.  Although  her  face  was  turned  away, 
he  could  see  she  was  crying  again  most  bitterly. 

*  If  I  thought  you  wished  me  to  stay,  Lisa,  I  would  not  go,'  he 
said,  even  then  scarcely  daring  to  hope. 

*  You  wouldn't  go  1 '  And  she  raised  her  head  and  for  a  moment 
looked  at  him  with  a  child's  face  of  eagerness  and  joy,  but  the 
next  she  turned  away  again  with  deepening  colour. 

*  No  j  not  if  you  wished  me  to  stay.  Lisa,  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth.  It  was  only  on  your  account  I  was  going — because 
I  love  you  so  much  that  I  could  not  stay  where  I  thought  there 
was  no  chance  of  winning  your  love  in  return ;  but  if  I  thought 

there  was  ' He  looked  at  her,  but  she  neither  moved  nor 

spoke.  ^  Lisa,  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  I  first  saw  you  ;  and 
1  have  loved  you  almost  without  hope,  for  I  felt  what  a  difference 
there  was  between  us,  in  age  and  character  and  everything  else, 
and  thought  it  was  madness  to  ask  you  to  think  of  me  as  any- 
thing but  a  cousin  and  a  friend.  Whether  I  have  any  right  to 
ask  it  now  I  don't  know.  Lisa,  dear  Lisa,  will  you  tell  me  1 
Will  you  say  whether  I  may  stay,  and  hope  that  some  day  you 
may  be  able  to  love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you  ? ' 

Lisa  was  looking  another  way,  her  face  all  hot  and  burning ; 
she  seemed  struggling  to  speak,  though  it  was  long  before  words 
came.  At  last  she  turned  and  looked  up  at  him  through  her 
tears. 

*I  can't  help  it;  you  are  not  like  anybody  else.  O  Percy, 
don't  go  away  and  leave  me  ! '  And  child-like  in  her  love  and  con- 
fidence, she  hid  her  face  on  his  arm  as  if  sure  of  finding  there 
the  shelter  and  protection  she  wanted. 

An  hour  later  they  were  still  sitting  in  the  same  place,  but 
Lisa's  tears  were  gone  then.  Her  face  was  flushed  indeed,  but 
it  was  with  happiness.     In  that  short  time  a  change  seemed  to 


UNDER  THE  LIME-TREES.  123 

her  to  have  come  over  everything,  and  the  whole  world  looked 
radiant.  The  sunshine,  which  when  she  had  come  that  way  had 
seemed  so  dim,  now  danced  and  flickered  through  the  leaves  and 
fell  at  her  feet  in  a  shower  of  beauty  ;  and  the  voice  of  the  sum- 
mer wind,  which  not  long  ago  had  sounded  full  of  sadness,  came 
laden  with  a  music  of  its  own,  and  spoke  of  one  lasting  dream 
of  happiness.  She  had  found  some  one  who  was  to  be  every- 
thing to  her — some  one  who  would  care  for  her  and  love  her  all 
through  her  life,  and  shield  her  from  all  trouble  and  sorrow. 

Poor  Lisa,  it  was  a  bright  dream,  and  it  would  have  been 
hard,  then,  to  persuade  her  that  it  might  not  last ;  that  human 
affection,  strong  and  tried  as  it  might  be,  could  not  be  all  in  all 
to  her,  that  its  very  intensity  and  devotion  might  be  the  channels 
through  which  grief  and  trial  were  to  visit  her.  She  was  too 
young  to  have  any  such  misgivings  ;  and  she  was  very  happy 
sitting  there  by  Percy's  side,  listening  to  all  he  had  to  tell  her  of 
his  deep,  passionate  love,  and  the  bright  future  he  would  make 
for  her.  She  had  much,  too,  to  tell  him  in  return  ;  and  though  it 
only  came  out  in  bits  and  snatches,  as  if  she  hardly  liked  to  think 
of  what  had  made  her  so  miserable,  yet  she  managed  by  degrees 
to  tell  him  everything — how  and  when  she  had  first  discovered 
he  was  not  the  brother  she  had  always  taken  him  for ;  how  she 
had  dreaded  his  knowing  what  her  feelings  were  ;  and  how,  in 
trying  to  hide  them,  she  had  contrived  to  make  both  herself  and 
him  very  unhappy.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it,  those  last 
four  weeks  had  been  so  wretched.  But,  as  he  said,  why  should 
they  make  themselves  miserable  about  the  past  when  their  mistake 
had  come  to  an  end,  and  they  had  found  out  what  they  were  to 
each  other  1  His  own  happiness,  however,  he  hardly  seemed  able 
to  realise.  That  Lisa,  bright,  joyous,  and  beautiful,  so  unlike 
himself  in  every  way,  should  have  given  her  affections  to  him, 
appeared  incredible. 

*  Are  you  sure,  dearest,  you  know  what  you  are  doing  1  I  am 
afraid  you  have  not  thought  enough  about  it,  and  of  the  great 
difference  there  is  between  us  in  everything.  You  forget  how  old 
and  grave  I  am  ;  and  then,  too,'  smiling  a  little,  '  I  am  not  good- 
looking  ;  are  you  sure  you  can  put  up  with  me  as  I  am  ?  You 
must  have  forgotten  that ' 

*  Percy,  that  isn't  generous  of  you  ! '  Lisa  exclaimed,  growing 
crimson  in  a  moment.  ^  It  was  so  very,  very  long  ago  I  said  that. 
ft  was  in  my  foolish  days,  before  I  knew  or  cared  about  you. 


124  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY.  ■ 

I  had  forgotten  it  till  Susan  reminded  me  of  it  that  day  at  din-  \ 
ner ;  and  then  I  was  miserable.  You  would  never  talk  in  that  ' 
way  if  you  knew  how  unhappy  it  makes  me.'  '■ 

'  Well,  I  will  not,  dearest ;  though  I  don't  know  why  it  should  \ 
make  you  unhappy.  But,  Lisa,  what  I  fear  is  that  you  should  \ 
some  day  find  you  have  made  a  mistake  in  thinking  you  can  \ 
care  for  me.  You  are  so  young,  so  pretty,  and  so  winning,  that  \ 
I  feel  as  if  you  were  not  made  for  me  ;  only  my  love  for  you  is  i 
as  true  and  deep  as  any  you  could  find ;  you  might  go  all  the  j 
world  over  and  not  meet  one  who  would  love  you  as  I  do ;  and  if  \ 
that  would  make  up  for  other  things ' \ 

^  Percy,'  and  Lisa  sat  up  and  looked  at  him  with  a  bright  j 
colour,  but  with  clear  steady  eyes,  ^  will  you  listen  to  me  for  one  < 
minute  ?  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  and  you  are  to  believe  \ 
it.  I  wouldn't  have  you  different  if  I  could.  I  like  your  being  j 
older  and  graver  than  I  am,  because  I  like  to  look  up  to  you.  \ 
And  as  for  your  not  being  handsome,  that  is  as  people  think ;  /  : 
think  you  are.  Won't  you  believe  me  1  It  is  all  true,  indeed.  ■ 
Promise  me  you  will  never  talk  in  that  way  any  more.'  \ 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his,  her  earnest,  Avistful  look  saying  even  \ 
more  than  her  words,  and  Percy's  last  doubts  went  then.  Lisa  j 
saw  he  believed  and  trusted  her,  and  she  was  very  happy.  She  \ 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything  in  the  joy  of  that  hour,  and  j 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time,  till  the  sound  of  foot-  < 
steps  coming  up  to  a  gate  close  by  brought  her  back  to  outward  i 
realities.  The  step  was  her  uncle's ;  but  although  she  knew  this  \ 
well  enough,  she  started  as  she  heard  the  turning  of  the  key  in 
the  door.  i 

*  It 's  only  my  father ;  you  are  not  going  to  run  away  ? '  Percy  \ 
exclaimed,  as  she  made  a  frightened  movement.  ^ 

*  Yes,  I  am ;  I  can't  see  him.  O  Percy,  don't  hold  me  so  : 
tight ; '  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  making  her  escape  when  the  \ 
door  opened,  and  she  found  herself  stopped  by  Dr  Tennent,  who  \ 
caught  her  as  she  was  passing  him.  ] 

*  Well,  my  little  girl,  what  are  you  doing  ? '  he  began,  *  and  ! 

where  are  you  running  so  fast?     You  look   as  if And  ^ 

then  seeing  Percy,  he  stopped  short,  with  a  long  look  first  at  him,  \ 
and  again  at  Lisa,  whose  tell-tale  face  of  blushes  and  confusion  j 
must  have  prepared  him  for  what  was  coming.  i 

*  Why,  Percy,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? '  and  although  I 
there  Avas  nothing  in  his  tone  to  indicate  displeasure,  Lisa  felt  | 


UNDER  THE  LIME-TREES.  125 

til  at  she  could  not  wait  to  hear  the  explanation  that  must  be 
given. 

*  Please  let  me  go,  uncle  Henry,  won't  you  1  ^  she  said,  in  such 
imploring  accents  that  they  were  not  to  be  resisted. 

He  looked  at  her  once  more  with  an  odd  smile,  and  then  re- 
leased her. 

'  I  understand.  Get  along  with  you.  And  now,  Percy,  let 
me  hear  what  you  have  to  say.' 

And  as  he  turned  to  his  son,  Lisa  made  her  escape  in  good 
earnest,  and  rushed  back  to  the  house. 

It  was  not  long  afterwards  when  Mary,  who  was  still  sitting 
in  her  room,  heard  the  door  open  very  softly,  and  soine  one 
come  stealing  in.  Noiseless  as  the  step  was  that  crossed  the 
floor,  she  recognised  it  at  once ;  there  was  no  other  like  it  in 
the  house — no  other  so  light  and  fairy-like. 

'  I  am  glad  you  are  come,  Lisa,'  she  said,  without  looking  up  ; 
*I  was  not  able  to  get  out,  for  this  has  taken  longer  than  I 
thought  it  would.  It  must  be  past  tea-time — will  you  ring  the 
Ibell,  dear  ] ' 

Lisa  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  instead  of  doing  as 
she  was  asked,  came  up  behind  her  cousin's  chair,  and  stood 
there  without  speaking.     A  little  surprised,  Mary  turned. 

*  Why,  Lisa  dear,'  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  '  how  hot 
you  are  !     Where  have  you  been  ] ' 

*  Only  in  the  garden — in  the  green-walk.* 

*  In  the  garden  !  But  what  have  you  been  doing  there  1  Is 
anything  the  matter  ? ' 

^  No,  oh  no  !     It 's  only  that — that '  and  coming  round, 

and  kneeling  down  by  her  cousin's  side,  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
lap.  *  Mary,  dear,  I  was  with  Percy,  and — and  he  told  me 
something.     Can  you  guess  what  it  w^as  1 ' 

For  a  moment  Mary  was  silent ;  then  she  bent  down,  stroking 
Lisa's  hair  caressingly. 

*  What  was  it,  my  darling  1  I  can  guess  what  he  said  to  you, 
but  I  don't  know  what  you  told  him.' 

Lisa  raised  her  head  and  looked  up  for  a  minute  very  shyly. 
*  Not  know !  0  Mary  !  when  he  is  better  than  anybody  else  in 
all  the  world — when  there  is  no  one  like  him  ! ' 

She  hid  her  face  again,  but  Mary's  warm,  delighted  embrace 
was  sympathy  itself. 

*  Dear  Lisa,  I  am  so  glad — so  happy  ! ' 


126  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  So  am  1/  Lisa  murmured.  *  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  happy. 
It  hardly  seems  right  I  should  be  so,  when  I  have  been  so  silly 
all  this  time,  and  so  cross.' 

Mary  smiled  a  little. 

'  That  was  it,  was  it,  Lisa  ?  That  is  what  has  been  making 
you  look  so  pale  lately.  I  thought  there  was  something  the 
matter  besides  the  hot  weather.' 

*  Did  you  1 '  Lisa  said,  in  some  confusion.  ^  I  didn't  know  I 
showed  it.  I  meant  to  keep  it  to  myself.  I  was  so  afraid  he 
should  find  out  that — that — I  couldn't  tell,  you  know,  that  he 
would  ever  think  of  me.' 

'  Couldn't  you  1 '  Well,  it  is  all  over  now,  dear,  at  any  rate, 
and  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  it  again.  You  will  be 
very  happy,  my  darling — I  am  sure  Percy  will  make  you  so  ; 
and  I  am  so  glad  to  know  it !  And,  Lisa,  you  know  what  I 
think  of  him.  You  don't  want  me  to  tell  you  what  you  have 
heard  so  often.' 

'  No,  I  know  it  all.  I  know  it 's  true.  And,  Mary  dear,  I 
must  make  him  happy  too.  I  wonder  whether  I  shall — I'm 
half  afraid.  I  'm  such  a  little  thing,  and  I  don't  know  much. 
Sup])ose  he  should  be  disappointed  in  me  after  all ! ' 

^Not  much  fear  of  that,  dearest — he  is  not  taking  you  on 
trust.  You  have  known  each  other  so  long  now.  Besides,  Lisa, 
you  are  very  young — you  may  go  on  improving.' 

*  Yes,  so  I  may — I  '11  try,  Mary,'  was  the  answer,  in  a  very 
thoughtful  tone ;  and  with  her  head  still  resting  on  her  cousin's 
knee,  Lisa  fell  into  a  long  reverie. 

*  And  so.  Miss  Lisa,'  began  her  uncle,  when  some  time  after- 
wards he  sent  for  her  into  the  library — '  and  so  Percy  has  been 
persuading  you  that  he  is  the  best  person  in  the  world  to  have 
the  care  of  you — that  you  will  be  much  happier  with  him  than 
you  are  here.  Is  it  true  1 '  He  put  his  arm  round  her  as  she 
stood  by  the  side  of  his  chair,  and  drew  her  very  close  to  him. 
*  You  must  tell  me  what  you  think  about  it,  my  child.  Is  it 
really  what  you  wish  ? ' 

Lisa  nestled  still  closer  to  him,  and  stole  a  curiously  wistful, 
timid  glance  at  Percy,  who  was  standing  near. 

'  I  shall  not  like  leaving  you,  uncle  Henry ; '  and  her  voice 
faltered  a  little.     *  You  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me — but 

— he  asked  me,  and  I  couldn't  say  what  wasn't  true,  and ' ■ 

She  hid  her  face. 


HAPPY  DAYS.  127 

Dr  Tennent  smiled.  *  Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  you 
think  as  he  does,  and  are  quite  ready  to  trust  yourself  to  him. 
So  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  tell  him  he  may 
have  you.  Mind,  Percy,  you  take  good  care  of  her ;  for  if  you 
don't  I  shall  never  forgive  you.' 

What  Percy's  answer  was  no  one  knew.  It  Avas  not  coherent 
by  any  means;  but  Lisa's  confiding  smile  told  that  she  could 
trust  him ;  and  her  face  all  that  evening  was  one  of  very  quiet, 
but  perfect  happiness.  She  had  not  even  a  misgiving  as  to  how 
her  engagement  would  be  taken  by  the  aunt  of  whom  she  stood 
so  much  in  dread.  She  rested  satisfied  with  the  feeling  that  it 
was  sanctioned  and  approved  by  those  whom  she  most  loved  and 
cared  for. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


HAPPY    DAYS. 


Mrs  Tennent's  air  of  displeasure  the  following  morning  w^as 
sufiicient  to  make  it  apparent  that  something  was  wrong.  But 
Lisa  was  too  happy  to  be  influenced  by  external  circumstances ; 
and  although  aware  of  her  aunt's  annoyance,  it  had  no  power  to 
cast  a  shadow  over  the  brightness  of  her  spirit.  She  was  very 
silent ;  but  it  was  no  fear  that  kept  her  so — only  a  strange 
mixture  of  shy  but  very  happy  feelings.  But  quietly  as  she  sat 
in  her  usual  corner,  hardly  joining  at  all  in  what  went  on,  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  radiant  expression  of  her  face ;  and  it 
shortly  elicited  the  remark  from  Arthur,  that  ^  the  mere  prospect 
of  Copelands  pleasures  and  Mrs  Pye's  good  cheer  seemed  to  be 
exhilarating  ;  for  Lisa  was  getting  quite  "  perky  "  already — ■ 
unless,  indeed,  she  had  been  shamming  illness  to  get  a  holi- 
day.' 

Lisa  laughed,  but  it  was  in  some  confusion,  which  was  not 
diminished  a  minute  afterwards,  when  something  being  said 
about  Percy's  leaving  on  the  Saturday,  he  answered  that  he  was 
not  going  to  Scotland  at  all. 


128  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  ]^6t  going  to  Scotland  ! '  exclaimed  half-a-dozen  voices  at 
once,  wliilo  Mrs  Tennent  looked  sterner  than  ever,  and  the 
doctor  buried  himself  behind  the  Times.  Lisa's  crimson  face 
escaped  notice  in  the  excitement  produced  by  what  appeared 
such  an  extraordinary  announcement. 

*  Not  going  to  Scotland  !  *  repeated  Arthur.  *  What 's  the 
meaning  of  that  *?  I  thought  it  was  a  settled  thing.  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  give  up  the  grouse  !  It 's  a  moral  impossi- 
bility ! ' 

*  iVnd  what  will  the  Wilsons  say  1  *  remarked  Isabel.  *  They 
won't  like  it — it  is  so  odd  to  make  an  engagement  and  break  it 
without  any  cause.' 

'  I  only  made  it  to  suit  myself,'  he  answered,  *  and  now  I  've 
changed  my  mind.     I  don't  care  to  go.' 

*  But  that  is  such  a  foolish  reason — they  will  be  offended,  you 
may  be  sure.' 

*  Not  the  least  fear  of  it.     I  wrote  to  Wilson  last  night.' 

*  But  the  grouse  ! '  interposed  Arthur.  *  What  a  chance,  and 
to  let  it  go  begging  !  By  George,  if  I  could  be  off  to  the  moors 
with  a  gun  on  my  shoulder,  you  wouldn't  see  me  back  in  a 
hurry.     I  don't  understand  what  attraction  you  have  found  in 

Atherstone  to  keep  you  here — unless  indeed' and   struck 

apparently  by  some  bright  thought,  Arthur  looked  at  his  cousin 
with  a  peculiar  smile.  ^  It 's  not  a  settled  thing  yet,  is  it  ? 
Well,  she 's  not  a  bad-looking  girl — I  rather  admire  your  taste, 
do  you  know.  Is  it  fixed,  or  will  congratulations  be  prema- 
ture ? ' 

*  Bather  ;  considering  that  I  don't  know  whom  you  are  talking 
about.  Susan,  what  time  are  you  going  to  Copelands  ?  I  shall 
walk  over  there  with  you.'  And  as  Percy  rose  from  the  table, 
the  rest  of  the  party  began  to  break  up  too,  and  dispersed  to 
their  several  occupations. 

The  w^alk  to  Copelands  had  to  be  accomplished  before  the  heat 
of  the  day  came  on,  so  no  time  was  to  be  lost  in  setting  off;  and 
Lisa,  who  was  ready  long  before  the  others,  willingly  acceded  to 
Percy's  proposal  of  going  on  by  themselves.  They  walked  silently 
enough  through  the  long  street  in  which  the  Priory  stood ;  but 
wlien  they  got  beyond  the  town,  he  turned  to  her  with  a  smile, 
and  drew  her  arm  within  his.  The  walk  seemed  a  very  short 
one ;  but  it  was  only  to  be  the  first  of  many  others  while  she 
was  at  Copelands,  for  he  should  come  over  every  day,  he  said — 


HAPPY  DAYS.  129 

and  before  he  left  be  gave  her  a  very  pretty  pearl  ring  which  he 
told  her  he  wanted  her  to  wear. 

She  had  never  had  such  a  thing  before,  and  she  coloured  be- 
tween surprise  and  delight.     '  What  a  little  beauty  !     But ' 

and  she  looked  at  it  doubtfully.    *  Did  you  get  it  on  purpose  for 
me,  Percy  r 

*  Yes,  dearest,  I  did.     Why,  don't  you  w^ish  to  have  it  V 

*  Oh,  yes,  it 's  not  that — but — I  have  never  worn  anything  oi 
the  sort,  you  know.  I  am  not  sure  whether  Aunt  Helen  will 
like  it.  She  won't  even  let  me  have  a  brooch  to  fasten  my  hand- 
kerchief, and  I  don't  know  what  she  will  say  to  a  ring ! ' 

He  smiled.  *  My  dear  Lisa,  she  can't  treat  you  as  a  child  any 
longer.  She  won't  say  anything  when  she  hears  I  have  given  it 
to  you.  And  I  wish  you  particularly  to  wear  it.  Won't  you  do 
so  to  please  meV 

*  Of  course  I  will,  if  you  wish  it,'  she  said,  slipping  it  on  her 
finger.  ^  And  I  won't  lose  it.  That  is  a  grand  promise  for  me 
to  make,  Percy,  because  I  always  lose  everything.  But  this  will 
be  different,  because  you  have  given  it  me.  I  shall  take  great 
care  of  it.' 

And  if  that  day  were  to  be  taken  as  a  sample  of  what  others 
were  to  be,  Lisa  stood  in  no  danger  of  losing  her  ring  through 
f orgetfulness ;  for  long  after  Percy  had  left  her,  she  stood  turn- 
ing it  round  and  round  upon  her  finger,  lost  in  thought.  It  must 
have  been  very  pleasant  thought,  for  there  was  a  smile  upon  her 
face  all  the  time;  and  whenever  she  looked  at  it  afterwards, 
which  was  very  often,  the  smile  came  back.  She  did  not  take 
it  off  even  when  she  went  to  bed  that  night ;  and  once  when  she 
half  woke  up,  wondering  where  she  was,  she  felt  to  see  that  it 
was  really  there,  and  assure  herself  that  her  happiness  was  not  a 
dream. 

They  were  pleasant  days  that  followed.  The  early  rising,  the 
visits  to  the  farmyard  and  dairy,  where  she  helped  to  milk  the 
cows,  skim  the  cream,  and  churn  the  butter,  the  races  in  the 
meadows  with  Susan  and  Constance,  and  the  coming  back  to 
breakfast  so  hungry  that  Mrs  Pye's  talDle,  laden  as  it  was,  seemed 
hardly  furnished  with  enough  to  satisfy  their  appetites;  the 
hundred  other  employments  in  orchard,  farm,  and  garden,  were 
more  charming  now  than  they  had  ever  been ;  for  through  all 
was  the  thought  of  the  one  great  happiness  which  was  so  new  to 
her.     That  thought  was  with  her  all  day  long,  brightening  the 

I 


130  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

hours  when  Percy  was  away  from  her,  and  making  those  she 
spent  with  him  the  most  joyous  she  had  ever  known. 

He  was  very  often  there — every  morning,  in  short — coming 
over  immediately  after  breakfast  to  find  Lisa  on  the  look-out  for 
him,  walking  up  and  down  the  lane  by  which  he  must  come, 
and  always  meeting  him  with  the  most  winning  smile,  and 
inaking  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  pleasure  which  it  gave  her  to 
be  with  him.  And  then  came  long  talks  and  long  rides  together; 
for,  remembering  her  delight  in  this  latter  exercise,  one  of  his 
first  thoughts  had  been  to  find  means  for  gratifying  it ;  and  as 
Mr  Pye  had  exchanged  his  hunter  for  a  quieter  horse,  of  which 
he  was  most  willing  to  let  Miss  Lisa  have  the  use,  Percy  had  not 
much  difficulty  in  carrying  out  his  wishes.  A  horse  for  himself 
was  always  procurable  at  Atherstone,  and  a  lady's  saddle  having 
also  been  obtained,  and  a  skirt  furnished  by  Lane  to  do  duty  as 
a  habit,  Lisa  took  her  first  legitimate  ride ;  and  although  she 
found  a  saddle,  as  she  said,  the  most  inconvenient  thing  imagin- 
able, and  declared  she  would  much  rather  ride  without  one,  she 
grew  accustomed  to  it  in  a  day  or  two  j  and  from  having  had  so 
much  stolen  practice,  soon  became  an  accomplished  horse-woman. 
Their  rides  grew  longer  and  longer,  extending  into  parts  of 
the  country  where  she  had  never  been  before,  over  lonely  heaths, 
through  deep  woods  and  overhanging  lanes,  and  up  among  the 
hills,  on  which  she  had  often  looked  as  the  boundary  of  Ather- 
stone view.  She  was  never  tired — only  becoming  brighter  and 
more  animated  with  every  new  scene ;  and  as  she  cantered  by 
Percy's  side  with  eyes  sparkling  and  colour  raised,  it  was  no 
wonder  his  eye  so  often  lingered  on  her  with  admiration ;  and 
although  his  w^ords  were  few,  and  his  manner  singularly  quiet 
and  undemonstrative,  no  one  would  have  been  surprised  to  hear 
that  his  love  for  her  was  something  bordering  on  idolatry. 

'  I  think  these  rides  are  so  very  pleasant !'  she  exclaimed  one 
day,  *  and  certainly  this  is  the  most  delightful  time  in  all  my 
life.  O  Percy,  what  a  view !  Put  up  your  glass  and  look  at 
it.  Do  you  see  the  sunlight  on  that  glimpse  of  the  river  below, 
and  those  deep  shadows  on  the  rocks  opposite  1  How  lovely  it 
is,  and  how  beautiful  the  heather  looks  ! ' 

They  had  paused  under  a  clump  of  trees  upon  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  and  were  looking  down  upon  one  of  the  lonely  picturesque 
valleys  not  uncommon  in  those  parts.  It  was  long  before  Lisa 
could  take  her  eyes  from  the  scene  before  her,  and  she  seemed 


HAPPY  DAYS.  131 

fio  absorbed  in  its  beauty,  that  she  grew  quite  grave  and  thought- 
ful, as  if  oppressed  by  the  loveliness  that  lay  around.  But  when 
they  moved  on,  she  began  again  in  her  usual  tone. 

*  Yes,  I  like  these  rides  so  much ;  they  are  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  I  could  have.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  these  new  and  beau- 
tiful places ;  and  then,  too,  I  am  so  fond  of  a  horse.  Percy,' 
turning  to  him  with  a  laugh,  '  do  you  remember  my  last  ride  in 
the  spring  ?  How  badly  I  behaved  then  !  Do  you  recollect  how 
rude  I  was  to  you  1  I  hit  you  with  my  whip.  I  have  often 
thought  of  it  since.     I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  you.' 

He  smiled  a  little.  '  Your  hand  is  not  very  heavy,  Lisa.  If 
you  had  been  no  more  hurt  than  I  was,  it  would  have  been  a 
good  thing  for  both  of  us.' 

'  For  me,  you  mean ;  but  it  was  only  what  I  deserved,'  she 
said,  very  decidedly.  '  What  a  disagreeable  girl  you  must  have 
thought  me  !  I  can't  imagine  how  it  was  you  didn't  hate  me, 
and  give  me  up  as  good  for  nothing.' 

*  Instead  of  liking  you  all  the  better  for  it.  I  am  afraid,  Lisa, 
your  wilfulness  and  your — your  what  shall  I  call  it' 

*Bad,  spiteful  temper?'  suggested  Lisa,  patting  her  horse's 
neck. 

*  Nothing  of  the  sort ;  your — well,  your  dislike  of  me,  for  I 
suppose  it  came  from  that — I  am  afraid  that  was  the  very  thing 
which  attracted  me.  I  don't  think  I  should  have  cared  for  you 
half  so  much  if  you  had  not  been  what  you  were.' 

Lisa  opened  her  eyes.  ^  You  liked  me  for  being  naughty,  you 
mean — for  being  self-willed,  disobedient,  and  unamiable?  O 
Percy !' 

*  It  was  not  right,  perhaps,  but  I  am  afraid  it  is  the  truth. 
I  don't  know  that  I  always  approved  of  what  you  did ;  but  I 
liked  it,  as  coming  from  you.  And  it  is  the  case  still.  You 
may  do  what  you  please,  Lisa.  You  can  do  nothing  I  should 
not  like.' 

*  Nothing  !'  and  Lisa  smiled  a  little.  *  But,  Percy,  that  is  very 
wrong  of  you.  If  I  don't  do  right,  you  ought  to  tell  me  of  it, 
and  help  me  to  be  better.  I  have  so  many  faults,  that  if  I 
haven't  some  one  to  remind  me  of  them,  I  shall  never  get  rid  of 
them.  And  if  you  say  you  would  like  anything  I  do,  you  will 
never  help  me  at  all,  I  am  afraid.  Only  I  don't  quite  believe 
that.'  She  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  short  distance,  and  then  said 
suddenly,  with  a  sparkle  of  suppressed  merriment  in  her  eyes, 


132  ATHERGTONE  t^RTORY. 

*  If  I  were  to  tell  you  by-and-b}^  I  didn  t  care  for  you,  I  suppose 
you  would  like  that  too.' 

*  Lisa  ! '  His  voice  was  so  terribly  hoarse  and  unnatural  that 
she  was  quite  startled  ;  and  when  she  turned  to  look  at  him, 
there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  face  such  as  she  had  never  seen  before. 
In  something  like  fear  she  shrank  away.  The  movement  recalled 
him  to  himself,  and  he  tried  to  force  a  smile. 

*  I  did  not  frighten  you,  did  I,  Lisa  1  I  did  not  intend  to  do 
that.  Don't  look  so  miserable,  dearest.  I  meant  nothing.  But 
never  say  such  a  thing  as  that  again,  if  you  don't  wish  to  make 
me  wretched.  I  can't  bear  to  think  there  is  a  chance  of.  your 
changing  towards  me.' 

Lisa  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  for  he  was  speaking  like 
himself. 

^  Why,  Percy,  you  don't  think  I  meant  it !  I  was  only  in  jest. 
You  can't  suppose  I  said  it  in  earnest.' 

'  No,  dearest,  no.    But ' He  hesitated,  and  then  repeated, 

*  Don't  say  it  again,  Lisa,  even  if  it  is  only  in  jest.    You  don't  know 
what  it  would  be  if  you  trifled  with  me.     I  could  not  bear  it.' 

There  was  one  thing,  then,  she  could  do  which  he  would  not 
like ;  and  if  he  had  not  spoken  as  he  did,  she  might  have  said 
something  light  with  reference  to  his  former  speech.  But  she 
did  not  do  so ;  she  only  said  in  a  low  voice — 

*  I  won't  do  anything  you  don't  wish,  Percy.  You  can't  really 
think  I  should  ever  trifle  with  you.  It 's  so  impossible,  that  I 
am  sure  you  are  jesting  now.' 

He  smiled,  but  made  no  other  answer,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped,  though  there  was  just  the  slightest  shade  of  constraint 
between  them  for  the  remainder  of  the  way  home.  Slight  as  it 
was,  it  was  sufficient  to  make  Lisa  uneasy;  and  when,  on  reaching 
the  farm,  they  left  her  horse  at  the  stable  and  she  walked  back 
with  him  to  the  gate,  she  looked  so  grave  that  he  asked  her  what 
was  the  matter.     Was  she  very  much  tired  'I 

*  No,  not  at  all.'  But  a  minute  after  a  little  hand  came  steal- 
ing into  his.  '  Percy,  I  didn't  vex  you,  did  I,  when  I  said  that 
silly  thing  ]     You  are  not  angry  with  nie  ? ' 

'  Angry  with  you ! '  and  his  face  brightened  in  a  moment. 

*  ^[y  darling,  what  could  make  you  think  so  1     "No,  I  will  tell 
you  what  it   was.      For  one  moment,  I  thought  you  were  in 

earnest — that  such  a  thing  might  be,  and well,  never  mind, 

it  is  not  true.     You  are  mine — you  have  promised  me.' 


HAPPY  DAYS.  133 

*  Yes,  and  I  like  to  think  I  have.  If  I  had  known  you  would 
take  it  in  that  way,  I  would  never,  never  have  said  it.' 

'  I  know  that,  dearest.     I  am  sorry  I  frightened  you  so  much. 
Have  you  forgiven  me,  Lisa,  or  are  you  still  afraid  of  me  ? ' 
'  Afraid  of  you  !     O  Percy ! ' 

*  Yes,  afraid  of  me.  You  were  before,  Lisa.  I  did  not  like 
to  see  you  look  like  that.' 

'  Because  you  didn't  speak  like  yourself ;  you  Avere  so  strange. 
But  you  are  not  now ;  you  are  just  what  you  always  are.' 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  gave  her  a  long  kiss,  and  then 
he  went  away  without  another  word.  And  so  the  little  cloud 
vanished. 

It  was  the  only  one  during  the  whole  of  that  happy  visit. 
Those  long  morning  rides  were,  perhaps,  Lisa's  chief  delight : 
but  there  were  other  things  almost  as  pleasant ;  and  of  these  not 
the  least  were  her  rambles  in  the  evening,  when  Percy  was  sure 
to  come  again,  often  with  Mary,  who  liked  to  see  what  they  were 
all  doing.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  talk  of  when  she  came,  and 
long  rambles  about  the  farm  and  its  neighbourhood  with  her  and 
Percy ;  and  when  Mary  was  kept  at  home,  he  came  alone,  a  fact 
which  did  not  long  escape  the  notice  of  Mrs  Pye.  *  Of  course,' 
she  said,  '  it  was  very  right  that  Miss  Lisa,  who  was  not  well, 
should  have  those  long  rides ;  and  a  great  deal  of  good  they  did 
her,  for  she  always  came  back  from  them  with  very  bright  eyes 
and  colour ;  and  it  was  quite  proper,  too,  that  Captain  Tennent, 
who  was  her  cousin,  and  so  much  older  than  herself,  should  go 
with  her  at  such  times ;  but  when  it  came  to  his  coming  again  in 
the  evening,  and  staying  so  long  too,  why,  then,  she  began  to 
have  her  suspicions ;  and  really,  if  Miss  Lisa  had  not  been  such 
a  little  bit  of  a  thing,  she  could  have  fancied  there  w^as  something 
in  it.  As  far  as  that  went,  how^ever,  one  did  hear  now  and  then 
of  young  girls  marrying  men  ever  so  much  older  than  themselves.' 
Miss  Lisa's  sudden  blush,  too,  when  he  happened  once  to  come 
unexpectedly,  and  her  evident  disappointment  another  time  when 
it  rained,  and  something  was  said  by  one  of  the  younger  children 
about  nobody  getting  over  from  the  Priory  that  evening,  these 
and  a  number  of  other  little  things  were  not  lost  upon  Mrs  Pye. 
But  as  the  farmer  only  laughed,  and  Lane  was  evidently  injured 
when  anything  of  the  sort  Avas  said,  she  kept  her  thoughts  to 
herself. 


134  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  FIRST  LINK  IN  A  LONG  CHAIN. 

Lisa  came  back  from  that  visit  to  Copelands  looking  very 
different  from  what  she  had  done  two  weeks  before;  and  Dr 
Tennent,  to  whom  she  rushed  for  a  kiss  directly  she  entered  the 
drawing-room,  declared  he  should  advise  Mrs  Pye  to  set  up  a 
regular  boarding-house.  If  she  could  turn  out  many  such  roses 
as  those  Lisa  had  brought  back  with  her,  he  had  no  doubt  she 
would  soon  make  her  fortune. 

*  Yes,  providing  the  invalids,  when  they  go  there,  have  no 
more  the  matter  with  them  than  this  one,'  remarked  Mrs  Tennent, 
drily.  *  Stand  out  of  the  light,  child.  Don't  you  see  I  am 
working  ? ' 

'  Providing,  too,  they  have  Percy  to  look  after  them,'  put  in 
Arthur.  *  I  wonder  how  often  he  has  been  out  there  lately. 
Pretty  nearly  every  day,  I  suspect,  Miss  Lisa?  Did  he  think 
your  morals  wanted  improving;  or  what  was  it  gave  you  so 
much  of  his  company  1 ' 

It  was  a  random  speech,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  effect  it 
produced  on  more  than  one  person  in  the  room.  Mrs  Tennent 
coughed,  the  doctor  fidgeted,  and  Lisa  herself  grew  very  crimson, 
and  saying  something  about  taking  off  her  hat,  vanished  in  a 
great  hurry.  Arthur  glanced  at  them  all  in  succession  in  no 
little  astonishment. 

'  What 's  the  matter  1 '  he  said  at  last.  *  Everybody  looks 
very  queer.     Is  there  anything  in  the  wind  V 

There  was  no  answer.  Dr  Tennent  looked  at  his  wife,  and 
then  at  his  son. 

*Well,  yes;  I  believe  there  is.  And  I  don't  know  that  it 
need  be  a  secret  any  longer;  eh,  my  dear?  eh,  Percy?  You  don't 
wish  it  not  to  be  known,  do  you  1 ' 

^  Certainly  not,  sir — the  sooner  it  is  known  the  better,  in  my 
opinion.  I  always  understood  that  directly  this  Copelands  visit 
was  over,  it  was  to  be  made  public.  Mrs  Tennent  told  me  it 
should,  and  I  su2)pose  she  sees  no  reason  to  retract  her  promise.* 


THE  FIRST  LINK  IN  A  LONG  CHAIN.  135 

Mrs  Teniient  jerked  her  needle  out  sharply,  snapping  her 
thread  as  she  did  so. 

^You  know  what  I  think  about  it,  Percy.  It  has  not  my 
sanction ;  I  consider  it  an  exceedingly  foolish  business  ! ' 

Perhaps  Percy  thought  he  was  old  enough  to  judge  for  him- 
self whether  he  were  acting  foolishly  or  not,  for  a  smile  passed 
over  his  face,  and  then  he  said  quietly,  but  with  a  good  deal  of 
proud  happiness  in  his  tone,  *  Lisa  and  I  are  engaged.' 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  Arthur's  feet,  he  could  hardly 
have  looked  more  petrified ;  and  as  for  Isabel  and  Elinor,  they 
were  even  more  taken  by  surprise  than  he  was.  For  some 
minutes  not  a  word  was  said  by  one  of  them,  and  if  Percy 
had  expected  congratulations,  he  must  have  been  woefully  dis- 
appointed by  that  blank  silence.  By  degrees,  however,  Arthur 
seemed  to  come  to  himself. 

'Well,'  he  said,  slowly,  *I  don't  understand  it,  and  that's  the 
truth.  Lisa,  that  little  chit !  And  to  you  !  I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  really  it 's  so  very  odd.  Of  course  it 's  true,  as  you  say  it ; 
only  I  had  an  idea — but  I  suppose  I  was  mistaken.' 

'  I  suppose  you  were,'  Percy  answered,  rather  stiffly. 

*  Now,  old  fellow,  don't  be  offended ; '  and  Arthur  jumped  up 
from  his  chair.  *  You  don't  think  I  'm  not  glad  ?  I  wish  you 
joy  with  all  my  heart,'  wringing  his  cousin's  hand  as  he  spoke. 
*  But  such  a  thing  requires  time  to  digest.  Lisa  is  such  a  mite 
to  begin  with — why,  she  has  only  just  been  put  into  long  frocks — 
woman's  dresses,  I  mean ;  and  she 's  not  out  of  the  nursery  yet. 
She  plays  with  Conny's  dolls,  and  makes  herself  very  happy  over 
a  cart  and  horse  with  George ;  and  really  the  idea  of  her  coming 
out  in  such  a  new  line  is  startling.' 

'  You  are  quite  right,  Arthur,'  Mrs  Tennent  said.  *  The 
whole  thing  is  very  foolish.  I  am  glad  you  see  it  in  that 
light.' 

'  In  what  light  ?  It 's  odd,  certainly,  but  it 's  very  jolly. 
You  don't  mean,  ma'am,  you  don't  like  it  1  that  you  don't  think 
little  Scaramouch  has  shown  her  sense  in  making  such  a  choice  1 
Excuse  my  saying  it,  Percy,  but — you  are  not  exactly  the  sort 
of  fellow  I  should  have  thought  she  would  take  a  fancy  to.  You 
understand,  don't  you  *? ' 

*  Quite/  and  Percy  smiled  a  little,  not  in  the  least  offended  at 
this  speech.  He  was  as  well  aware  as  any  one  of  his  deficiencies; 
and  there  might  be  some  pride  in  the  thought  that,  in  spite  of 


136  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

them  all,  lie  liad  been  able  to  win  the  heart  of  his  beautiful  little 
cousin.  Most  probably,  too,  he  was  prepared  for  the  surprise 
which  was  sure  to  be  expressed  by  every  one  when  Lisa's  choice 
came  to  be  known ;  but  there  was  a  disappointment  in  store  for 
him  which  he  had  not  expected.  Next  to  Mary,  he  always 
looked  to  Isabel  for  sympathy  in  everything,  and  he  never 
doubted  now  that  she  would  be  the  first  to  wish  him  joy.  It 
was  to  her  he  turned  when  speaking  of  his  engagement,  hoping 
for  a  word  or  look  to  tell  him  how  much  she  entered  into  his 
feelings. 

But  he  waited  in  vain.  When  her  first  astonishment  was 
over,  she  took  up  her  work  again,  and  neither  spoke  nor  raised 
her  eyes ;  and  although  Arthur,  in  spite  of  very  ominous  coughs 
from  headquarters,  persisted  in  saying  over  and  over  again  how 
very  glad  he  was,  and  declaring  Percy  was  the  luckiest  fellow  in 
existence,  not  a  word  came  from  Isabel.  Her  brother  watched 
her  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  crossing  the  room,  sat  down 
by  her  side. 

^  And  so  you  are  not  going  to  give  me  a  word,  Isabel  ? '  he 
said,  half  lightly,  half  reproachfully.  *  You  won't  even  tell  me 
you  are  glad  that  Lisa  and  I  are  so  happy  1  And  yet  I  want  to 
hear  something  from  you  more  than  any  one.* 

She  did  look  up  then,  but  it  was  not  with  the  smile  he  had 
hoped  to  see. 

'  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  want  to  hear,  Percy  ;  but  I 
am  afraid  if  I  were  to  say  what  I  think,  you  w^ould  not  like  it. 
I  don't  wish  to  vex  you,  but ' 

*  But  what  ? '  and  he  looked  hurt.  '  You  think,  I  suppose,  I 
am  too  old  for  her — that  she  might  have  done  better.' 

'  She  !  no,  indeed  !  I  think  you  might  have  done  better.  O 
Percy,  she  is  not  the  wife  for  you — indeed  she  is  not.'  And 
Isabel's  hand  was  laid  imploringly  on  his  arm.  *You  cannot 
know  her,  or  you  would  not  think  of  her ;  you  will  never  be 
happy.' 

*  Nonsense,  Isabel,'  half  angrily.  ^  Surely  I  must  be  the  best 
judge  of  the  sort  of  wife  I  want ;  you  can't  expect  me  to  marry 
to  please  you,  or  even  to  consult  your  taste  in  my  choice.  I  did 
hope,  though,'  and  he  came  back  to  his  usual  tone,  but  with 
even  more  than  his  usual  affection  in  it,  '  I  did  hope  you  would 
care  for  any  one  I  chose ;  that  even  if  she  were  a  stranger,  you 
would  love  her  for  my  sake.     But  Lisa  !  Lisa,  whom  you  have 


THE  FIRST  LINK  IN  A  LONG  CHAIN.  Vu7 

known  so  long,  who  must  be  like  a  sister  to  you  already  !    What 
on  earth  makes  you  think  I  shall  not  be  happy  with  her  ] ' 

*  Everything/  Isabel  exclaimed.  *  She  is  not  in  the  least 
suited  for  you  ;  and  so  you  would  feel  if  you  knew  her  as  I  do. 
But/  changing  her  voice  as  she  saw  his  impatient  look,  '  what 
is  the  use  of  saying  anything  about  it  1  As  you  said  just  now, 
you  are  not  marrying  to  please  me.  There  is  no  good,  therefore, 
in  talking  of  what  will  only  vex  us  both.' 

Percy  bit  his  lip.  *  And  that  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  me, 
then  1  These  are  all  the  good  wishes  you  have  to  give  us  1  They 
are  not  what  I  should  have  expected,'  he  added,  rather  bitterly. 

*  I  was  not  speaking  of  wishes,'  Isabel  said,  hastily.  *  You  know 
well  enough  that  nobody  can  wish  more  for  you  than  I  do ;  no 
one  can  care  more  to  see  you  happy,  and  Lisa  too ' 

*  Well,  and  that  is  all  I  want,'  he  interrupted.  *  Why  did  you 
look  so  grave,  as  if  it  was  nothing  to  you  whether  we  were 
happy  or  not  ] ' 

*  Because ' She  hesitated.     *  Hoping  is  not  expecting, 

Percy,  and — I  can't  say  I  am  glad  for  what  I  am  afraid  won't 
bring  you  happiness.' 

He  looked  annoyed. 

*  What  makes  you  think  it  will  not  ?  What  has  poor  Lisa 
done  to  make  you  think  so  hardly  of  her?  She  is  the  brightest, 
sweetest-tempered,  and  most  loving  little  creature  in  the  world. 
Why  should  you  speak  of  her  in  that  depreciating  way  V 

*  I  do  not  mean  it  to  be  depreciating.  I  like  Lisa  very  much, 
and  believe  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  good  in  her ;  but  I  have 
known  her  much  longer  than  you  have,  and  I  know  she  has 
many  faults.' 

Percy's  head  went  up  in  the  way  in  which  he  often  showed 
displeasure. 

*She  has,  has  she?  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  have  a  par- 
ticular objection  to  people  who  are  considered  perfect.  But  pray, 
what  are  these  dreadful  faults  which  make  you  think  so  badly  of 
poor  Lisa  ?     She  has  too  much  spirit  for  you,  I  suppose  ?  * 

Isabel  looked  grave.  *I  should  like  her  spirit  shown  in  a 
different  way,'  she  said ;  '  I  don't  think  it  speaks  well  for  the 
disposition  of  any  one  to  be  always  in  opposition  to  those  who 
have  the  direction  of  them.  But  that  was  not  what  I  was 
thinking  of.  You  know  what  I  once  said  of  her — you  know 
how  very  like  '< 


138  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  Take  care,  Isabel,'  and  liis  face  grew  dark.  *  Take  care  what 
you  are  saying,  if  you  please.  Eemember  what  Lisa  is  to  me 
now.     She  is  my  promised  wife.' 

*  I  know  that — O  Percy,  how  could  you  think  of  her  1  Yes, 
you  must  be  angry  with  me  if  you  like.  I  mu.st  say  what  I 
think.  She  is  like  her  mother ;  she  is  light  and  frivolous;  it  is 
that  makes  me  afraid  for  her,  and  afraid  for  you.' 

'  Oh  ! '  and  whether  he  looked  most  annoyed  or  most  amused 
was  difficult  to  say.  *  And  so  that  is  the  grand  crime,  is  it? 
She  is  a  child — and  a  very  gay  and  simple  one,  who  picks  up  plea- 
sures where  no  one  else  would  look  for  them  ;  and  because  she  has 
not  learned  to  see  life  yet  in  a  matter-of-fact  view,  she  is  set 
down  as  frivolous ;  and  by  you  of  all  people  !  Isabel,  I  thought 
you  had  more  penetration,  and,'  he  added  pointedly,  for  he  was 
really  piqued,  '  more  kindness  than  to  judge  her  so  harshly.' 

IsabePs  face  flushed.  '  I  am  sorry  you  think  me  unkind.  If 
I  am,  though,  it  is  because  I  think  so  much  of  you,  Percy ; 
because  I  should  have  liked — well,  never  mind  now — there  is  no 
reason  we  should  quarrel  because  we  don't  think  alike.' 

All  very  different  from  what  he  had  hoped  to  hear  from  his 
favourite  sister;  and  chilled,  hurt,  and  disappointed,  Percy 
walked  away.  Nor  was  Isabel  herself  much  more  comfortable. 
She  felt  she  had  said  and  done  the  wrong  thing;  that 
whatever  Lisa's  faults  were,  it  was  not  the  time  to  have  dis- 
cussed them  ;  that  it  would  have  been  better  to  look  less  to 
what  w^as  wanting  in  her  cousin  than  to  the  many  winning  and 
attractive  qualities  which  had  won  her  brother's  love.  She  felt 
half  inclined  to  follow  him  and  say  something  to  efface  the 
impression  her  words  had  left,  but  she  did  not  follow  the  im- 
pulse. A  new,  unpleasant  feeling  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
and  she  would  have  found  it  extremely  disagreeable  to  confess 
that  there  was  something  akin  to  jealousy  in  it. 

But  so  it  was.  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  give  up  a  place  where 
we  have  been  first ;  and  Isabel  had  so  long  been  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  her  brother  as  belonging  almost  exclusively  to  herself, 
that  it  was  hard  to  realise  the  fact  that  she  must  henceforth  be 
content  to  stand  only  second  in  his  affections.  And  that  Lisa, 
so  much  younger,  so  far  iitferior  to  herself,  should  be  the  person 
to  whom  she  was  to  yield  what  all  her  life  she  had  most  prized, 
made  the  trial  harder.  But  she  little  knew  what  she  was  doing 
when  allowing  her  feelings  of  jealousy  to  interfere  with  the  sym- 


THE  FIRST  LINK  IN  A  LONG  CHAIN.  139 

pathy  for  wMch  lier  brother  looked,  and  lead  lier  to  depreciate 
lier  rival.  Percy  was  not  one  to  hear,  with  indifference,  those 
whom  he  loved  spoken  of  slightingly.  She  had  raised  a  barrier 
between  them  such  as  once  she  never  had  dreamed  of ;  and  though 
it  was  slight  at  first,  and  she  thought  but  little  of  what  a  few 
words  might  so  easily  break  down,  those  words  were  not  spoken ; 
and  opportunities  once  lost,  who  can  tell  when  they  may  return  1 

Lisa  came  back  to  the  drawing-room  unaware  of  the  revela- 
tion that  had  taken  place  during  her  absence,  and  her  confusion 
on  finding  her  engagement  no  longer  a  secret,  was  so  great  that 
she  was  not  likely  to  notice  the  silence  of  one  or  two  among 
the  many  voices  surrounding  her.  All  she  thought  of  was  to 
escape  observation ;  and  looking  very  shy,  and  very  crimson,  she 
ensconced  herself  behind  one  of  the  farthest  tables,  and  did  her 
best  to  keep  out  of  sight.  But  Arthur  was  not  disposed  to  let 
her  off  so  easily. 

'  I  say,  Lisa,'  he  said,  sitting  down  opposite  to  her,  '  what  a 
lucky  thing  for  you  you  didn't  take  my  wager  at  Christmas ! 
When  did  you  begin  to  change  your  mind ;  or  was  it  only  fib- 
bing, and  you  really  admired  him  all  along]  Ton  my  word, 
I  'm  ashamed  of  you  !  I'd  no  idea  you  were  such  a  hypocrite  !' 

*  Arthur,  how  you  tease  ! '  Lisa  exclaimed,  in  great  distress. 

*  And  so  you  have  set  up  for  a  woman,'  he  said.  '  And  pray 
w^hat  do  you  mean  to  do  when  you  are  married  1  You  will  have 
to  give  up  running  and  jumping,  and  all  such  amusements. 
You  will  have  to  sit  indoors  all  day,  receiving  visitors  and  play- 
ing propriety.  You  won't  like  it,  I  can  tell  you ;  if  you  take 
my  advice,  you  '11  think  twice  before  you  plunge  into  the  matri- 
monial state.  And  do  you  mean  to  live  in  barracks'?  Imagine 
the  horrors  of  being  shut  up  in  two  or  three  rooms ;  you,  who 
have  run  wild  all  your  life !  And  you  will  be  a  close  prisoner, 
you  may  be  quite  sure ;  for  Le  Balaf re ' — he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  expressively — 'is  awfully  particular,  and  won't  even 
let  you  look  out  of  window  without  his  permission.' 

*  Won't  he  ?  Then  I  shan't  do  it/  Lisa  said,  very  simply ;  and 
Arthur  laughed. 

*  Taming  down  already,  are  you  1  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  say,  ''  Then  I  shall  do  it."  Well,  1  shall  like  to  see  how  you 
get  on.  I  expect  some  fun  ;  and  if  somebody  is  to  be  trusted,' 
looking  at  Mrs  Tennent,  '  I  shall  have  it.  Have  you  heard  her 
mind  yet  upon  the  subject  ? ' 


140  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Lisa  said  *No/  and  looked  so  friglitened  at  the  prospect  of 
what  she  was  to  hear  from  her  aunt,  that  Arthur  took  compassion 
on  her  blushes  and  confusion,  and  after  a  little  more  teasing  left 
her  to  herself.  All  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  sat  beside  Mar}^ 
very  quiet  and  very  silent ;  happily  unconscious  that  it  was  not 
by  her  aunt  alone  that  Percy's  choice  was  disapproved. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   PAST. 


The  following  day  happened  to  bring  a  large  party  of  relations 
into  Atherstone.  Lisa,  who  had  no  particular  fancy  to  meet 
them  sooner  than  necessary,  kept  out  of  the  way  all  the  morning, 
and  when  her  work  with  Mary  was  ended,  spent  the  half-hour 
before  luncheon  with  Percy  in  the  green  walk.  She  was  return- 
ing to  the  house  with  him  at  one  o'clock,  when  seeing  the  library 
window  open,  she  turned  in  with  some  flowers  she  had  been 
gathering.  She  imagined  the  room  was  empty,  but  as  she  was 
stopping  for  a  moment  while  Percy  stooped  to  disentangle  her 
dress  from  the  straggling  branch  of  a  rose-tree,  she  heard  voices 
within,  and  her  own  name  mentioned.     It  was  Isabel  speaking. 

*  I  wouldn't  mind,'  she  was  saying,  *  if  Lisa  were  likely  to 
make  him  happy  ;  but  there  is  no  depth,  no  earnestness  of  char- 
acter about  her.  She  is  a  pretty  child,  and  no  more  ;  very 
taking  in  manner  when  she  pleases,  but  as  light  and  frivolous  as 
possible,  and  with  no  tastes  to  make  her  a  companion  to  him. 
And  then  her  mother  !  You  know  all  about  that,  Eose.  And 
Lisa  is  just  like  her.' 

*  Yes,  so  mamma  says.  I  don't  remember  Mrs  Kennedy 
myself,  but  she  says  Lisa  always  reminds  her  of  her ;  that  she 
has  all  her  beauty,  and  is  just  like  her  in  her  ways.  But  you 
surely  don't  think  Lisa  would  do  anything  so  bad  as  that ! 
Fancy  going  off  and  leaving  her  husband  and  child — somebody 
told  me  Mr  Kennedy  broke  his  heart  about  it.  But  I  never 
heard  what  became  of  her.     It  was  a  miserable  affair  altogether.' 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PAST.  141 

What  more  miglit  have  been  said  would  be  hard  to  tell,  but 
the  dress  was  disentangled  by  this  time,  and  Lisa  stood  within 
the  window,  to  the  no  little  consternation  of  the  speakers.  Her 
face  was  very  white,  but  upon  each  cheek  there  burned  a  bright 
red  spot.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  them  without  a  word, 
while  they  gazed  at  her  in  silent  dismay.  Eose  was  the  first  to 
recover  herself,  and  making  an  attempt  to  appear  unconcerned, 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

*  How  do  you  do,  Lisa  1  I  was  w^ondering  where  you  were. 
Ah,  I  see  ;  of  course,'  with  a  smile,  as  she  caught  sight  of  Percy 
behind  her.  And  then  becoming  alarmed  at  the  fixed  unnatural 
look  of  the  large  eyes  that  gazed  upon  her,  *  But  how  strange 
you  look  !  is  anything  the  matter  1 ' 

*  Yes/  in  a  choked  voice.  *  Eose,  what  was  that  you  were 
saying  just  now  about — about  my  mother]'  She  shivered  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  spoke.  *  Tell  me ;  I  want  to  know  what  it 
was.' 

Eose  gazed  at  her  in  a  frightened  way.  *  Bless  me,  child, 
don't  look  like  that.  It  wasn't  meant  for  you  to  hear  ;  and/ 
gaining  a  little  courage  and  trying  once  more  to  turn  it  off, 
*you  shouldn't  have  been  listening.  You  know  the  proverb, 
*'  Listeners '" 

*  I  wasn't  listening.  I  couldn't  help  hearing.  Eose,  tell  it 
me  again ;  no  one  ever  said  so  before.' 

Eose  glanced  at  Isabel  in  dismay.  '  Do  you  mean  she  never 
knew  it  ?  Lisa,  I  told  you  it  wasn't  meant  for  you  to  hear. 
What  is  the  use  of  asking  questions  which  I  can't  answer  1 ' 

*  Because  you  know  it 's  not  true,'  Lisa  exclaimed  passionately. 

*  How  dare  you  say  such  things  of  her  ?  You  may  say  what  you 
like  of  me — that  I  am  light,  frivolous,  anything  you  please.  I 
am  not  good,  I  know,  and  you  may  tell  me  so;  but  you  shall  say 
nothing  against  he?' — never,  no,  never.  I  won't  hear  it,  I  won't 
believe  it ;  it  is  not  true,'  she  repeated,  still  more  passionately. 

*  Percy,  you  heard  what  she  said;  you  will  tell  her  it's  false — 
that  it  never,  never  could  be  true.' 

But  the  sad,  silent  look  with  which  Percy  met  her  beseeching 
one,  told  her  that  it  was  true ;  and  flinging  down  her  flowers, 
she  stood  for  a  moment  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
then  rushed  from  the  room. 

*  And  that  was  why  you  would  never  tell  me  about  her ;  why 
you  always  put  me  off  when  I  asked  you  where  she  was  1     O 


142  ATHERSTONE  PBIORY. 

Mary,  it 's  very,  very  hard ; '  and  poor  Lisa  sobbed  bitterly  as  slie 
knelt  by  her  cousin's  side.  ^  I  never  thought  such  a  thing  as 
that.  I  have  wondered  all  these  years  where  she  was,  but  some- 
how I  always  hoped  she  would  come  back — that  I  should  see 
her  again  j  but  now ' a  fresh  burst  of  tears  choked  her  utter- 
ance. 

'  Dearest  Lisa,  I  wish  you  had  never  heard  it ! '  And  Mary 
stroked  her  head  caressingly ;  her  own  tears  falling  fast. 

'  And  now  I  can  never  hope  to  see  her  again.  I  couldn't — it 
would  be  too  dreadful.  Mary,  I  hope  it  isn't  wrong,  but  I 
would  rather  have  heard  she  was  dead — yes,  far  rather.  But 
not  to  know  where  she  is,  or  anything  about  her,  except  that — 
that  she  is — 0  Mary,  do  you  know  1  Have  you  ever  heard  any 
more  than  Eose  said  just  now  1 ' 

'  Yes,  dear,  I  have,'  in  a  low  voice. 

*  You  have  ^ '  and  she  looked  up  with  a  wild,  startled  glance, 
but  something  in  her  cousin's  face  seemed  to  tell  her  what  she 
was  to  hear,  and  she  laid  her  head  down  again  with  a  shudder. 
'  Mary,  is  she  dead  1 ' 

*  Yes — dear  Lisa,  my  child,  you  must  not  cry  like  that,'  as  the 
bitter  sobs  came  again.  *  You  have  nothing  to  be  sorry  for  now 
for  her.  It  was  far  better  and  happier  for  her  to  die  as  she  did. 
I  can  show  you  a  letter  we  had  about  her ;  you  won't  feel  so  un- 
happy then,  Lisa.' 

<  A  letter  1 ' 

*  Yes ;  a  letter  papa  had  last  winter  from  Mr  Hirst,  when  he 
was  in  Germany.  He  was  at  Wie^^baden,  and  he  knew  the 
chaplain  there,  who  had  seen  her  very  often.  You  will  feel 
there  is  no  need  to  be  unhappy  about  her  any  longer.' 

Lisa  gave  a  long,  long  sigh.  *  When  was  it,  Mary  1  When 
did  she  die  ? '  she  said  at  last  in  a  broken  voice. 

*  Last  year,  dear  ;  somewhere  about  this  time,  I  think.' 

^  Last  year — last  August !  That  was — let  me  see  ;  yes,  that 
was  when  we  were  all  staying  at  Copelands,  and  Arthur  was  with 
us.  We  were  very  happy  then.  I  didn't  think,  Mary — I 
couldn't  tell,'  and  her  lip  quivered,  *  I  couldn't  tell  that  she  was 
dying — lonely  and  miserable,' 

'  Not  miserable,  dearest,'  said  Mary,  trying  to  still  the  burst  of 
anguish  tbat  had  followed  these  words.  *  She  was  not  miserable. 
You  won't  think  so  when  you  have  seen  that  letter.' 

*  And  afterwards  in  the  winter  when  you  heard  of  it,  and  all 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PAST.  143 

this  time  too — I  have  been  very  happy — I  knew  nothing  about 
it.  Oh,  why  wasn't  I  told  ?  Why  did  you  all  let  me  go  on  car- 
ing nothing  for  her;  never  thinking  that  I  shouldn't  see  her 
again  ?     Oh,  it  was  cruel — cruel  1 ' 

'  Hush  !  Lisa  dear ;  don't  cry  in  that  way — it  was  not  cruel. 
You  knew  nothing  of  her  history,  then,  you  know;  it  was  always 
thought  better  you  should  not.  And  why  should  you  have  been 
told  what  it  would  only  have  distressed  you  to  hear,  when  we 
could  give  you  no  explanations  with  it?  Indeed,  dear,  it  was 
done  for  the  best ;  and  you  must  remember  I  should  ;not  have 
told  you  even  now  if  you  had  not  unfortunately  learned  what 
you  were  never  meant  to  know.  I  thought  then  it  would  make 
you  happier  to  hear  that,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned,  there  is  no 
more  cause  for  grief.' 

*  Yes,  yes — oh,  yes — I  am  glad  for  that,  Mary — I  am,  indeed. 
I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  ;  glad  I  can  know  it  is  not  so  bad 

as  I  thought  at  first.     But ' and  she  sobbed  convulsively — 

'  I  don't  like  to  think  of  this  past  year,  and  my  having  been  so 
happy,  when — when  she  was  gone  for  ever.  Somehow  I  always 
hoped  I  should  see  her  again.  I  was  only  a  little  child,  you 
know,  when  I  saw  her  last ;  but  I  remember  how  she  used  to  kiss 
and  play  with  me.  I  remember,  too,  the  last  time  I  ever  saw 
her.  It  was  one  night,  and  I  had  been  asleep  ,  and  I  woke  and 
saw  her  standing  by  me  :  she  was  going  to  a  ball,  I  think,  for 
she  was  dressed  in  white,  and  she  had  roses  in  her  hair ;  but  she 
was  crying,  oh,  so  sadly !  and  she  must  have  been  kissing  me, 
for  my  face  was  quite  wet  with  her  tears.  And  then  she 
went  away,  and  I  never  saw  her  again.  They  told  me  the 
next  day  she  was  gone — that  she  would  never  come  back. 
But  I  always  hoped  she  would ;  and  now — now  I  can  hope  no 
more ! ' 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  her  passionate 
weeping. 

^  I  wonder  if  she  ever  thought  of  me,'  she  said  at  last ; 
*  whether  she  ever  spoke  of  me.  Do  you  think  she  did,  Mary? 
Or  do  you  think  she  had  quite  forgotten  me?' 

*  Forgotten  you  ?  oh,  no  !  She  must  have  thought  of  you 
very  often.  You  shall  see  Mr  Hirst's  letter,  dear,  that  will  tell 
you  everything,' 

And  there  was  another  silence,  till  the  opening  of  the  door 
roused  Lisa  from  her  crouching  posture  by  her  cousin's  side,  and 


144  ATSERSTONE  PRIORY. 

made  her  look  round  hastily.  It  was  Percy,  and  at  sight  of  him 
sh'3  started  up.  For  a  moment  she  looked  as  if  she  longed  to 
throw  herself  into  his  arms,  for  the  comfort  he  could  give  her ; 
but  the  next,  a  new  and  painful  thought  seemed  to  strike  her, 
for  the  colour  rushed  to  her  face,  and  she  drew  back. 

*  No,  Percy/  she  said  sorrowfully,  *  you  must  leave  me  now. 
You  must  give  me  up.  You  heard  what  they  said — what  they 
said  of  me  and  of  her.  You  can't  love  me  any  longer.'  But  in 
spite  of  the  half  resistance  she  made,  he  put  his  arm  round  her, 
and  drew  her  to  a  sofa  near. 

^  Why,  Lisa,  am  I  not  to  love  you  now  ?  Because  you  are  un- 
happy 1  I  should  have  thought  that  was  a  reason  for  loving  you 
more,  not  for  giving  you  up.' 

'Yes,  it  is.  You  heard  what  they  said.  I  am  not  worth 
anything ;  you  can  only  be  ashamed  of  me,  and  you  must  let  me 
take  back  my  promise.  I  didn't  know  this  when  I  made  it, 
or' 

*But  I  did.  Lisa,  dearest,  don't  talk  in  that  way.  What 
difference  can  such  a  thing  make  to  me  1  I  have  known  it  all 
along  ;  and  if  I  had  not — if  I  had  only  heard  it  to-day  for  the 
first  time,  it  could  not  change  my  feelings  towards  you.  Nothing 
that  any  one  else  can  do,  even  though  she  be  your  own  mother, 
can  ever  make  me  think  anything  of  you  but  what  is  pure  and 
good.' 

*  Ah,  but  other  people  may.  You  heard  what  Isabel  said  of 
me.  If  she  thinks  so,  other  people  may.  Perhaps,  too,  they 
may  say  worse  things.'  She  was  crying  so  bitterly  that  she  could 
not  go  on. 

Percy's  brow  had  darkened  visibly  at  the  mention  of  Isabel's 
name,  and  the  arm  that  was  round  Lisa  tightened  its  hold,  and 
drew  her  still  closer  to  him.  *  And  if  they  do,  my  darling,  all 
the  more  reason  you  should  have  some  one  to  protect  you; 
though  I  should  like  to  know  who  will  dare  to  say  a  word  against 
my  wife.  Listen  to  me,  my  own  dear  little  Lisa,  and  don't  cry 
for  such  thoughts  as  those.  You  are  mine,  and  nothing  can 
ever  separate  us.  If  you  are  unhappy,  who  has  so  good  a  right 
to  comfort  you  as  I  ?  You  must  not  tell  me  to  give  you  up ;  I 
could  not  do  it.' 

And  though  Lisa's  tears  still  fell  fast,  they  had  lost  all  their 
bitterness ;  though  nothing  Percy  could  do  or  say  could  ever 
remove  the  impression  made  by  that  revelation  of  her  mother's 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PAST.  145 

history,  or  divest  lier  of  the  feeling  of  shame  which  anjr  thought 
of  it  brought  back.  She  read  the  letter  her  uncle  gave  her  with 
many  tears;  but  she  said  nothing  at  the  time,  and  never  spoke  of 
it  again,  though  none  the  less  did  she  dwell  upon  it  in  secret; 
and  very  dark  for  the  time  was  the  shadow  that  glimpse  of  the 
past  cast  upon  her  path. 

At  the  end  of  that  week,  when  she  and  Percy  were  sitting 
alone  in  the  garden  one  evening,  he  spoke  to  her  of  his  wish 
that  their  marriage  should  not  be  delayed  very  long ;  his  leave 
would  be  up  in  November,  and  it  would  make  him  very  happy 
if,  when  he  went,  he  could  take  her  with  him.  Did  she  think 
she  could  consent  to  such  a  thing  ?  It  was  a  great  deal  to 
ask,  for  he  was  afraid  she  had  not  thought  much  about  it, 
and  the  time  was  rather  short.  She  should  wait  a  little  to 
consider  of  it,  and  tell  him  by-and-by  whether  she  could  make 
up  her  mind  to  leave  the  Priory,  and  try  life  in  a  new  home 
with  him. 

And  as  he  said  this,  Percy  looked  at  her  anxiously,  trying  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  But  it  was  getting  dark,  and  her 
head  was  turned  away.  He  could  make  out  nothing ;  and  she 
was  silent  so  long  that  he  began  to  fear  she  did  not  like  what 
he  had  said. 

It  was  not  that,  however,  that  kept  her  silent ;  it  was  simple 
surprise.  Although  aware  he  would  be  going  before  long,  it 
had  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  ask  her  to  go  with  him. 
She  had  supposed  they  would  be  married  in  a  few  years,  when  she 
was  more  of  a  woman — her  ideas  upon  the  subject  had  not  been 
very  definite ;  indeed,  she  had  thought  very  little  about  it.  She 
had  been  content  to  live  on  in  the  present ;  and  as  long  as  he 
was  with  her,  had  not  even  cared  to  conjecture  what  she  should 
do  when  he  was  gone.  But  this  proposition  of  his !  it  was  so 
unexpected  that  she  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it;  and  when 
after  some  minutes  still  no  reply  came,  Percy  was  confirmed  in 
his  opinion  of  having  displeased  her. 

^  Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Lisa,  dearest  1  You  don't  like  what 
I  said  ?     You  think  it  is  asking  too  much  ? ' 

*  No,'  she  said  ;  *  it 's  not  that — but — Percy,  I  never  thought 
about  it  before.     I  am  not  old  enough  to — to ' 

'  Well,  dearest,  you  shall  do  as  you  like,'  he  said,  finding  she 
did  not  go  on,  though  his  tone  betrayed  his  disappointment. 
*It  is  unreasonable  of  me,  I  daresay,  to  wish  it;  but  I 

K 


146  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

sometimes  how  much  older  I  am  than  yourself,  and  how  different  j 
things  look  to  you  from  what  they  do  to  me.  You  shall  do  as  ; 
you  please.  I  won't  urge  anything  upon  you,  though  I  would  j 
have  done  my  best,  Lisa,  to  make  you  happy ;  you  should  have  ; 
had  no  cause  to  regret  anything  you  gave  up  for  me.'  ] 

*  That  wasn't  what  I  meant,  Percy.     I  would  give  up  any-  '' 

thing  for  you  in  a  moment ;  you  know  I  would.    But ' She  | 

hesitated  again,  and  then  came  out  what  was  always  her  objec-  \ 
tion  to  any  proposition :  *  Aunt  Helen  wouldn't  like  it  —  she  i 
would  never  think  of  such  a  thing  for  one  minute — and  even  if  ! 
she  did,  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be,  because  I  know  nothing  i 
about  anything.  I  have  never  done  anything  for  myself  before,  j 
and  I  am  so  little  !  It  would  never  do — don't  you  see  V  stopping  j 
rather  abruptly.  ' 

*  Yes,  I  see,  dearest.     Is  that  all?'  ! 

*  I  should  make  a  mess  of  everything ; '  and  Lisa  pulled  some  j 
flowers  to  pieces,  and  spoke  very  energetically.  *  Besides,'  coming  -\ 
back  to  her  last  starting-point,  *  Aunt  Helen  would  say  "no."'       \ 

*  I  think  not.  If  those  are  all  your  objections,  Lisa,  I  don't  ] 
see  why  we  should  not  settle  it.  My  father  would  like  it  to  be  ; 
soon,  I  know.  And,  Lisa,  I  am  very  tired  of  my  lonely  life.  I  ] 
used  to  find  it  dull  before ;  and  now  it  will  be  worse  than  ever  ; 
if  I  have  to  go  and  leave  you  behind  me.  If  you  only  knew  how  j 
I  hate  the  thought  of  my  solitary  rooms.  Don't  you  think  you  \ 
could  make  up  your  mind  to  come  and  cheer  them  for  me?  j 
You  don't  know  how  happy  it  would  make  me  if  you  would  say  • 
you  won't  let  me  go  alone.' 

*  No  more  I  will,  Percy.  I  will  do  anything  you  like,'  she  ] 
said,  in  a  low  voice.  j 

^  Thank  you,  my  darling,'  and  the  tone  said  even  more  than  ! 

the  words.     *  When  shall  it  be,  then,  Lisa  ? '  he  went  on  after  a  i 

long  pause.     ^ Shall  we  say  the  beginning   of   October?     We  : 

shall  like  to  go  somewhere  before  I  am  obliged  to  join  again,  \ 

and  that  will  give  us  time.'  I 

'Yes,  so  it  will,'  and  she  went  on  thoughtfully  pulling  her  ' 

flower  to  pieces  ;  but  after  considering  them  for  some  little  time  ■ 

she  added,  *  Percy,  I  only  want  to  please  you — about  the  time,  I  i 

mean ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I  should  like.'  ; 

'  What  is  it,  dearest?'  he  asked,  eagerly.  \ 

'  Will  you  let  us  be  married  very  quietly  ?     People  make  a  ; 

fuss  sometimes  at  weddings.     I  have  seen  them  now  and  then  | 


AUTUMN  LEAVES.  147 

at  the  cliurch  here,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  married  in  that 
way.  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it  at  any  time ;  and  now,'  her  voice 
faltered,  '  I  couldn't  bear  it  now.     Let  it  be  very  quiet,  please.' 

A  request  to  which  Percy  was  only  too  happy  to  accede.  It 
was  settled,  therefore,  that  everything  should  be  as  quiet  as 
possible;  and  after  some  consultation  with  the  heads  of  the 
family,  the  wedding-day  was  finally  fixed  for  the  16th  of 
October. 

*Very  short  notice,'  remarked  Arthur,  when  this  announce- 
ment was  made.  *  But  that  is  all  the  better.  It  will  be  a  relief 
to  my  mind  when  it 's  over ;  for  at  present  Percy  is  simply 
unbearable.  If  any  unfortunate  individual  of  the  nobler  sex 
speaks  to  Lisa,  or  even  presumes  to  look  at  her,  he  is  ready 
to  knock  us  down.  Well,  he  '11  have  enough  of  her  soon ;  for 
better,  for  worse,  eh  1  And  in  the  meantime  we  must  feel 
thankful  that  the  present  state  of  things  is  only  to  last  seven 
weeks.  I  think,  though,  you  might  have  done  the  thing  hand- 
somely when  you  were  about  it.  Fancy  cutting  us  out  of  all 
our  fun  on  the  occasion  !  Not  even  allowing  us  a  dance  !  I 
call  it  "  real  shabby  "  of  you,  Scaramouch  ! ' 


CHAPTER   XXL 

AUTUMN  LEAVES. 


*  And  now,  child,  I  have  told  you  what  I  think  about  it ;  and  I 
hope  you  see  how  foolish  you  are,'  was  the  wind-up  of  a  long 
lecture  from  Mrs  Tennent  to  Lisa,  on  the  morning  after  every- 
thing had  been  settled.  *  I  don't  mean  to  say  any  more,  because 
both  your  uncle  and  Percy  are  deterrhined  to  have  their  own 
way,  and  have  made  all  their  arrangements  without  any  con- 
sideration for  my  wishes.  But  I  think  you  are  very  wrong,  and 
that  you  have  been  much  to  blame  all  along.  What  business 
had  a  girl  of  your  age  to  be  thinking  of  such  things  ?  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.' 


148  .  ATHERSTOKE  PHIORY. 

'Why,  Aunt  Helen  T  Lisa  asked,  nothing  daunted,  though 
her  cheeks  were  scarlet — ^  why  am  I  to  be  ashamed  of  myself? 
It  would  have  been  very  strange,  I  think,  if  I  hadn't  cared  for 
Percy,  for  he  has  been  very  kind  and  good  to  me.  I  can't  help 
loving  him,  and  loving  him  very  dearly  too ;  and' 

*  Lisa  !  I  am  shocked  •!     The  idea  of  talking  like  that !  * 

*  I  can't  help  it.  Aunt  Helen.  It  is  the  truth.  I  do  love  him 
very  dearly  indeed,  and  I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is  in  saying 
it.  I  shall  tell  him  so  in  church  soon  before  everybody,  and 
why  should  I  mind  your  knowing  it  ?  If  I  didn't  love  him, 
you  know,  I  shouldn't  marry  him.' 

Mrs  Tennent  looked  at  her  with  displeased  gravity.  '  I  think 
the  sooner  the  subject  is  dropped,  Lisa,  the  better.  I  hope  you 
will  soon  learn  to  see  your  position  in  a  more  serious  light ;  and 
I  am  sure  it  is  time  you  did,  for  you  have  not  very  long  to 
♦^^hink  about  it.  That  reminds  me,  by-the-by,  of  something 
else  I  wished  to  say  to  you — and  that  is  about  your  outfit. 
Your  uncle  told  me  he  wished  it  to  be  the  same  in  every  respect 
as  one  of  your  cousins'  would  be ;  but  I  don't  myself  consider 
that  at  all  necessary.  Your  position  is  not  the  same;  and  you 
know  that  in  a  few  years  there  would  have  been  even  a  greater 
difference  between  you.  I  shall  get  you  all  I  think  proper,  but 
it  will  not  be  what  they  would  have ;  nor  do  I  wish  you  to 
fancy  it  is.' 

Lisa  was  silent.  She  was  accustomed  to  hear  of  her  inferiority 
to  her  cousins,  but  the  reminder  was  none  the  more  pleasant 
on  that  account.  She  said  nothing,  however ;  and  after  a  pause, 
Mrs  Tennent  rose,  and  unlocking  her  dressing-case,  took  some- 
thing from  it. 

'  I  suppose  you  may  as  well  have  that  now,'  she  said,  holding 
it  out  without  looking  at  her  niece.  *  It  was  sent  from  Germany 
in  the  spring.     I  believe  your  father  gave  it.' 

It  was  a  gold  locket  set  with  turquoises,  and  Lisa  took  it  with 
a  trembling  hand.  She  did  not  know  that  when  everything  else 
had  been  sold  for  bread,  that  one  treasure  had  been  kept,  the 
last  relic  of  better  and  happier  days.  And  w^ell  for  her  she  did 
not.     It  was  pain  enough  to  look  at  it  as  it  was. 

*  I  shall  never  wear  it,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice ;  her  colour 
gromng  deeper  and  deeper,  and  the  large  tears  coming  down 
fast. 

'Very  well,  do  what  you  like  with  it;  it  is  nothing  to  me. 


AUTUMN  LEAVES.  149 

And  now  go,  child.  You  understand  about  your  outfit — that  I 
shall  get  what  I  think  proper,  and  expect  you  to  be  satisfied ; 
for,  as  you  know,  you  have  no  claim  upon  your  uncle.  It  is  a 
great  thing  for  you  to  have  had  a  home  here  so  long ;  and  you 
must  not  look  to  have  things  as  if  you  were  one  of  your  cousins. 
You  have  no  right  to  anything.  Do  you  hear]'  For  Lisa's 
head  was  bent,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  locket  with  a 
long  sad  gaze,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away.  She  started 
now. 

*  Yes,  I  heard.'  And  so  she  had,  the  words  at  least,  though 
she  did  not  quite  realise  their  meaning.  She  was  only  conscious, 
as  she  left  the  room,  of  a  sense  of  extreme  loneliness ;  of  being 
very  much  in  the  way,  and  not  wanted  where  she  was.  Well, 
that  feeling  w^ould  be  gone  soon.  Percy  would  not  think  her  a 
burden,  though  she  did  come  to  him  penniless,  with  nothing  but 
herself  and  her  love  to  give  him.  And  in  that  thought  there 
was  comfort ;  not  only  then,  but  in  much  that  came  to  try  her 
during  the  last  few  weeks  of  her  life  at  the  Priory. 

Some  allowance,  however,  was  to  be  made  for  Mrs  Tennent's 
displeasure  at  this  time ;  for  among  her  objections  to  her 
niece*s  marriage  was,  that  it  was  to  cause  a  change  in  her 
household,  for  which  she  was  by  no  means  prepared ;  and 
which  threatened  her  with  most  serious  inconvenience.  This 
was  nothing  else  than  the  intended  departure  of  Lane. 

*  Eh,  Miss  Lisa  !  what  have  you  done  %  *  was  the  old  nurse's 
exclamation  of  dismay  when  her  darling  first  hung  about  her 
neck,  and  told  her  *  she  was  not  going  to  live  at  the  Priory  much 
longer — that  she  was  to  marry  her  cousin  and  go  away  with 
him.' 

*  Eh,  dear,  but  you  don't  know  what  you  're  doing  !  Going 
to  marry  him,  do  you  say  ]  Why,  my  darling,  he 's  not  good 
enough  for  you.  He 's  too  old,  and  not  handsome  enough, 
and' 

*I  don't  like  handsome  men,'  Lisa  interrupted.  *  And  he's 
not  a  bit  too  old.  I  like  him  all  the  better  for  being  older  than 
I  am.  He  is  quite  good  enough  for  me  any  day ;  and  a  great 
deal  too  good.  And  she  smothered  her  old  nurse  with  kisses, 
till  she  almost  took  away  her  breath. 

^  0  Miss  Lisa,  what  a  child  you  are  !  look  what  a  mess 
you  're  making  of  my  cap  !  I  declare  it 's  not  fit  to  be  seen  ; 
it  never  is  when  you  come  near  me,'     And  Lane,  who  prided 


150  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

herself  upon  her  stiffly-starched  borders,  had  to  get  up  and 
readjust  her  head-gear  at  the  glass  before  she  could  proceed 
with  her  sentiments.  ^  I  always  thought,  Miss  Lisa,  you  would 
do  a  deal  better  for  yourself.  I  know  some  one  else  who  'd 
be  glad  enough  to  have  you;  and  he  is  handsome  and  rich, 
and  all  you  could  want.  You  'd  have  done  better  to  have 
chosen  him.  Ay,  dear,  you  know  who  I  mean ;  I  see  that 
by  your  colour.     It  ^s  a  pity  you  didn't  wait  for  him.' 

'  I  don't  like  him,'  Lisa  said,  scornfully.  *  Fancy  comparing 
them  !     O  Lane,  how  much  you  know  about  it  ! ' 

Lane  gave  a  little  sigh.  She  had  been  indulging  in  visions 
of  greatness  for  her  dear  Miss  Lisa,  and  it  was  mortifying 
to  discover  there  was  no  truth  in  them ;  that,  after  all,  Mrs 
Pye's  conclusions  were  likely  to  turn  out  more  correct  than 
her  own. 

*  Well,  dear,  you  know  best,  but  I  thought  you  'd  have  done 
better — that  I  did.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  you  "  my 
lady,"  and  living  at  that  fine  place  down  there.  Mr  Thorpe 
will  have  it  some  day,  they  say ;  and  plenty  of  money  too. 
I  should  have  liked  that  for  you.' 

*  Would  you  1  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it  for  myself.  I  don't 
want  Mr  Thorpe's  place,  or  his  money,  or  himself  either.  And 
fancy  me  "  my  lady  "  ! '  I  don't  know  what  "  my  ladies  "do 
or  say ;  and  I  should  want  to  run  about  and  enjoy  myself. 
I  could  never  have  done  that  at  the  Moat — it  is  such  a  dismal 
old  place.     You  don't  know  how  much  happier  I  am  now  ! ' 

*  Well,  dear,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it ; '  but  in  spite  of  this  assur- 
ance there  was  another  sigh.  '  And  I  hope  the  captain — 
major  isa't  he  now  1 — I  hope  he  '11  never  do  anything  to  make 
you  change  your  mind.  I  know  nothing  against  him,  to  be 
sure,  except  that  he  's  neither  young  nor  handsome.  But  he  's 
a  soldier,  and  soldiers  are  never  good  for  much.  They  are 
a  sad  lot.  Miss  Lisa  !  and  it  grieves  me  just  terrible  to  think 
of  your  having  to  go  and  live  among  them  ;  you  'U  be  wishing 
yourself  back  again,  I  'm  thinking,  before  the  year  is  out.  How- 
ever, dear,  if  you  go,  I  go  too ;  you  must  take  me  with  you.' 

'  You,  Lane  1 ' 

'  Yes,  dear.  You  won't  leave  me  behind,  will  you  ?  I  couldn't 
stay  when  you  were  gone,  you  know.' 

*  But,  Lane,  you  won't  like  it.  You  were  just  saying  I  should 
be   wishing  myself  back  again,  and  what  will  you  do  1     You 


AUTUMN  LEAVES.  151 

can't  bear  moving  about  j  and  perhaps  we  shall  have  to  do 
that  very  often.' 

*  Ay,  I  know  that ;  it 's  tramp,  tramp  about  the  country, 
and  never  settling  anywhere — here  to-day  and  there  to-morrow, 
and  off  to  foreign  parts  without  time  to  turn  yourself  round. 
But  that's  just  what  I  was  thinking.  Miss  Lisa;  for  what 
you  '11  do  by  yourself  in  such  confusion  is  more  than  I  can 
tell.  You'll  want  somebody  to  look  after  you  a  bit,  it  seems 
to  me/ 

Lisa  smiled.  She  thought  there  was  some  one  to  do  that, 
but  Lane  evidently  did  not  consider  a  husband's  protection 
sufficient  under  the  circumstances. 

'  And  so,  dear,  I  go  with  you.  You  '11  speak  to  the  captain, 
won't  you,  and  settle  it  for  me  ?  and — oh,  my  cap,  Miss  Lisa  ! ' 
as  Lisa  made  a  rush  to  embrace  her. 

*  You  dear  old  Lane  !     I  shall  like  you  to  come  so  much ! 

But ' she  stopped  suddenlj^,  '  what  will  Aunt  Helen  say  ? 

You  were  forgetting  her  ;  she  won't  like  you  leaving.' 

'  I  can't  help  that,  Miss  Lisa ;  we  are  not  slaves  in  this 
country,  and  she  can't  keep  me  if  I  have  a  mind  to  go.  Not 
but  that  it  will  grieve  me  sorely  to  leave  Master  Georgia  and 
all  of  them.  But  you  come  first ;  you  always  did,  for  I  took 
you  when  you  were  born,  and  I  was  with  your  mother  before 
you ;  so  don't  say  another  word  about  it,  but  just  tell  the 
captain  I  'm  coming,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.' 

And  so  the  last  days  of  summer  died  out,  and  September 
also  passed  away.  The  mornings  and  evenings  grew  very  fresh, 
and  autumnal  mists  himg  on  the  hill-sides.  Chill  breezes 
swept  across  the  uplands,  and  woods  were  changing  to  brown 
and  golden ;  and  in  the  Priory  garden  the  lawn  and  gravel  walks 
were  strewn  with  the  lime-trees'  falling  leaves.  And  Lisa 
walked  among  them  as  she  had  done  in  days  gone  by;  but 
her  step  by  Percy's  side  was  slower,  and  there  was  something 
of  sadness  in  the  glance  of  her  large  lustrous  eyes  as  they 
watched  the  fading  beauty  of  all  around.  She  knew  that  long 
before  the  last  leaf  from  those  trees  came  down,  she  would 
be  far  away ;  and  that  when  their  boughs  were  once  more 
clothed  with  green,  her  life  at  Atherstone  would  have  become 
a  dream. 


152  ATHEKBTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

THE  LAST  EVENING  IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

The  day  before  the  wedding  came,  last  visits  had  been  paid — 
last  good-byes  said  ;  and  for  the  last  time  Lisa  was  sitting  where 
she  had  so  often  sat  in  the  old  days  that  were  gone  now — on  the 
hearthrug  before  the  fire  in  the  schoolroom  by  Mary's  side.  It 
was  getting  dusk,  and  a  mist  was  gathering  without  j  and  the 
low  voice  of  the  wind  among  the  boughs  above  the  casement 
window  had  something  sad  in  its  tones;  telling,  it  seemed,  of 
long  partings — of  meetings  that  might  never  come — and  of  all 
the  thousand  changes  and  chances  that  life  must  bring. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  flicker  of 
the  firelight ;  but  a  deep  sigh  from  her  at  last,  made  Mary  look 
at  her. 

'  What  is  it,  dear  1  You  are  tired,  I  am  afraid ;  you  have 
been  walking  so  much  to-day.' 

'  No,  I  'm  not.  I  was  thinking,  that  was  all — thinking  what 
hard  things  good-byes  are.  I  don't  like  to  think  how  long  it 
may  be  before  I  see  everybody  again.  And  then,  Mary,  there's 
the  hardest  good-bye  of  all  to  come  to-morrow  ! '  And  she 
seized  her  cousin's  hand  and  squeezed  it  very  tight.  '  Mary, 
you  have  been  so  very  kind  to  me.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
leaving  you.' 

There  were  hot  tears  falling  on  the  hand  she  held,  and  Mary's 
only  answer  was  a  long  kiss ;  it  was  some  minutes  before  she 
could  trust  herself  to  speak.  When  she  did,  however,  though  it 
was  an  effort,  her  tones  were  almost  as  cheerful  as  usual. 

'  I  don't  like  it  either,  Lisa  dear ;  only  I  know  you  are  going 
to  be  very  happy,  and  I  suppose  we  ought  not  to  cry  about  that.' 
She  laughed  a  little  as  she  spoke,  for  a  large  tear  came  down  at 
that  moment.  *  That  was  a  mistake ;  I  didn't  mean  it.  It 
would  be  selfish  of  me  to  wish  to  keep  you  here  when  I  know 
you  are  going  to  be  happier  somewhere  else.  Besides,  I  sup- 
pose you  mean  to  ask  me  to  pay  you  a  visit  sometimes  1 ' 

'  Ah,  Mary  ;'  and  Lisa  brightened  considerably,     '  When  will 


THE  LAST  EVENING  IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE.  153 

you  come  ?     Will  you  let  it  be  very  soon  ?     How  I  wish  you 
could  live  with  us  always  ! ' 

*  Thank  you,  dear.  I  am  afraid  that  could  hardly  be  managed. 
I  have  too  much  at  present  to  do  here.  But  I  shall  like  to  come 
and  see  you,  and  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  before  I  do.  We  will 
have  a  very  happy  time  together  then,  Lisa.' 

*  Yes,  so  we  will.  I  '11  make  everything  so  pleasant  for  you, 
Mar3^  And  I  shall  be  so  glad  for  you  to  see  what  I  am  doing. 
I  mean  to  try  hard  to  be  just  what  I  ought,  and  to  make  Percy 
very  happy.     And  don't  you  think  I  can  1 ' 

*  Yes,  dear,  to  be  sure  you  can ;  anybody  can  do  what  is  right 
if  they  are  only  in  earnest.' 

And  Lisa  knew  from  her  cousin's  tone  what  she  meant.  For 
a  moment  she  was  silent,  and  then  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  '  I 
shall  try  ;  and  I  think,  Mary,  it  will  be  in  the  right  way.'  She 
sat  looking  at  the  fire  again  for  some  minutes  lost  in  thought ; 
but  turned  round  again  at  last  with  a  smile.  *  Mary,  how  I 
wish  you  would  marry,  and  come  and  live  near  us  !  How 
pleasant  it  would  be  !  I  don't  want  you  always  to  stay  as  you 
are  now.* 

'Why  not  r 

*  Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  you  were  meant  to  marry.  Yoti 
would  make  such  a  good  wife.     And  I  don't  like  you  to' 

*  To  be  an  old  maid,'  said  Mary,  smiling.  *  But  why  should 
you  dislike  it,  Lisa  1  Old  maids  are  not  so  disagreeable  in  these 
days.  A  great  deal  of  good  is  done  by  some  of  them  ;  and  I 
may  be  one  of  the  pleasant  sort,  and  make  myself  of  so  much 
use  in  the  world,  that  perhaps  people  may  forget  I  have  the 
misfortune  not  to  be  married.  And  I  suppose  you  won't  love 
me  any  the  less  if  I  keep  single  *? ' 

'  Mary,  what  an  idea !  But  you  would  be  sure  to  do  good 
anyhow,  whether  you  were  single  or  not ;  and — I  should  like 
you,  besides  being  of  use  to  other  people,  to  be  happy  yourself.' 

'  And  you  think  I  am  not  happy  ?     Do  I  look  so  miserable  1 ' 

Lisa  laughed.  '  Well,  not  exactly  ;  that  was  an  odd  thing 
for  me  to  say,  certainly ;  for  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  anybody 
happier  than  you  are,  Mary.  I  wonder  sometimes  why  you  are. 
You  don't  have  everything  as  you  like — ^you  have  a  great  deal  to 
plague  you  ;  but  I  never  see  you  look  miserable  as  some  people 
do.     You  seem  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.' 

'  And  so  I  am.     So  much  for  your  theory  about  marrying 


154  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

you  see.  No,  Lisa  dear,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it. 
Marriage  may  be  a  very  happy  thing ;  and  sometimes  it  is  sent 
as  a  great  blessing.  But  when  things  stand  in  the  way  of  it, 
and  we  know  it  can't  be,  then  we  must  find  other  interests  to 
take  its  place,  or  else  it  seems  as  if  we  were  repining  at  our  lot, 
and  could  not  be  satisfied  with  anything  but  what  we  should 
choose  for  ourselves.  And  that  would  be  so  ungrateful ;  for  why 
should  we  forget  all  the  good  things  that  are  given  us,  and  think 
only  of  the  one  we  can't  have  1 ' 

*  And  you  think,  then,  you  are  not  meant  to  marry  1 '  Lisa 
said,  quickly. 

*I  don't  think  it  at  all  likely  I  shall'  And  Lisa  did  not  see 
her  cousin's  face  as  she  spoke. 

*  But,  Mary,'  after  a  minute's  pause,  '  what  makes  you  think 
so  ?  You  don't  mind  my  asking,  do  you  1  You  are  just  the 
person  I  should  have  thought  would  marry.  Why  should  you 
think  you  won't  ? ' 

And  then,  as  there  was  no  answer  at  once,  she  looked  up. 

'  O  Mary,  what  have  I  said  1      Have  I  vexed  you  ?      How 

silly  of  me  to  ask  such  questions  !     But  I  didn't  know ' in 

great  distress. 

*  No,  dear,  of  course  you  did  not,'  said  Mary,  trying  to  smile. 
*  Never  mind,  Lisa,  you  have  not  vexed  me.  It  was  only  for  a 
minute.  I  was  thinking  of  something ;  thinking  how  different 
things  might  have  been  if — if ' 

*  Don't,  Mary,  don't  tell  me  anything,'  Lisa  exclaimed,  be- 
seechingly.    *  I  am  so  sorry.     I  never  meant  to  give  you  pain.' 

*  No  more  you  did.  And  it  is  so  long  ago  now  that  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  mind  talking  of  it.  Ten — twelve — yes, 
nearly  thirteen  years  ago,'  and  she  thought  a  little.  ^  Thirteen 
years  ago.  I  was  not  much  older  then  than  you,  Lisa.  I  fancied 
then  I  was  going  some  day  to  be  happy  in — in  the  way  you  want 
me  to  be,'  she  said,  stroking  her  cousin's  hair  fondly.  *  We  were 
engaged  ;  we  had  been  boy  and  girl  together.  He  was  three 
years  older  than  I  was ;  and  so  good  and  clever.  I  was  very 
proud  of  him.  But  he  was  very  poor,  and  we  knew  we  should 
have  to  wait  a  long  time.  We  had  been  engaged  two  years,  and 
then  he  had  an  appointment  ofi'ered  him  in  Lidia ;  it  was  much 
better  than  he  was  ever  likely  to  get  in  England,  and  we  thought 
he  ought  to  take  it.  And  in  ten  years  he  hoped  to  have  enough 
to  marry  on,  and  then  he  was  to  couie  back  for  me.' 


THE  LAST  EVENING  IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE.       155 

*  Ten  years  !  And  you  were  never  to  see  him  all  that  time  1 
O  Mary  ! ' 

'  Yes,  dear ;  it  seemed  a  long,  dreary  time  to  wait.  But  I 
did  not  know  then  I  should  have  to  wait  much  longer  before  I 
saw  him  again.  I  had  one  letter  from  him  after  he  left — they 
were  olF  St  Helena  then — and  I  never  had  another.' 

Lisa  looked  up  quickly.  ^  What  do  you  mean,  Mary  1  *  Did 
he — was  he ' 

*  The  vessel  never  reached  India ;  they  were  never  heard  of 
afterwards.' 

^  0  Mary  ! '  and  Lisa  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
for  a  long  time  there  was  a  silence. 

*  But  are  you  sure — quite  sure  ? '  she  said,  at  last.  '  Did  you 
never  hear  anything  at  all  ? ' 

*  Not  a  word.  I  hoped  on  for  months  and  months — long 
after  every  one  else  had  given  him  up  ;  but  I  knew  at  last  how 
it  was.  I  felt  he  was  really  gone.'  There  was  a  sigh  as  she 
spoke,  but  no  tears ;  only  Lisa's  were  falling  fast. 

'  Mary,  how  miserable  you  must  have  been  !  I  wonder  you 
didn't  die  ! '  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  shudder.  '  If 
Percy  were  taken  from  me  like  that  I  should  die.  I  know  I 
should.' 

^  No,  Lisa  dear,  you  would  not ;  people  don't  die  so  easily ; 
nor  were  we  meant  to  give  ourselves  up  to  grief  in  that  way.  I 
was  miserable  at  first — very  miserable,  and  wicked  too.  I  had  all 
sorts  of  hard,  bad  thoughts.  But  I  saw  things  difi'erently  after  a 
time,  and  found  there  was  a  great  deal  for  me  to  do,  and  a  great 
deal  left  to  make  me  happy,  if  I  chose  to  be  so.  It  was  then, 
Lisa,  that  you  came  to  us ;  and  when  I  had  the  care  of  you,  that 
terrible  blank  filled  up  by  degrees.  It  was  you  who  helped  most 
to  make  me  happy  again.' 

*  By  being  naughty  and  troublesome,  and  teasing  you  all  day 
long,'  Lisa  exclaimed,  with  something  between  a  laugh  and  a  sob. 
'  0  Mary,  what  a  torment  I  have  been  to  you  I  And  you  so 
patient,  so  good  to  me  all  the  time !  What  a  bad,  good-for- 
nothing  creature  I  have  been  ! ' 

*  You  need  not  call  yourself  such  hard  names,  Lisa.  Your 
love  has  been  worth  having.  And  I  don't  think  you  will  care 
for  me  any  the  less  now  because  you  are  going  away  ? ' 

^  Care  for  you  any  the  less  !  I  shall  love  you  ten  hundred  times 
more  now  than  I  ever  did.     I  shall  always  be  thinking  of  you ; 


156  ATHERSTONE  PRIOllY. 

and  shall  never  forget  all  you  have  done  for  me.'  She  looked  as  if 
she  would  have  liked  to  say  a  good  deal  more,  but  her  words  did 
not  come  so  readily  as  usual.  After  a  pause,  however,  she  added, 
wistfully,  '  And  it  is  true,  Mary  ]  After  all  that,  you  are  really 
happy  ? ' 

'  Yes,  indeed  I  am ;  much  happier  than  I  can  tell  you.  With 
a  home  where  I  can  be  useful,  and  so  many  people  to  care  for 
me,  it  would  be  ungrateful  to  be  miserable  because  my  life  is 
not  what  I  should  have  chosen  for  myself.  And  then  there  is 
always  one  hope  I  have — it  is  not  as  if  I  thought  I  should  never 
see  him  again.  Yes,  Lisa  dear,'  she  added  after  a  minute's  pause, 
*  there  is  a  better  kind  of  happiness  than  that  which  comes  from 
having  things  just  as  we  like.' 

It  was  a  truth  which  Lisa,  with  that  face  before  her,  could 
fully  realise ;  nor  could  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  have  preached 
such  a  lesson  to  her  as  did  the  thought  of  the  patient,  cheerful, 
and  self  denying  life  of  which  for  years  she  had  been  a  witness, 
but  which  until  now  she  had  only  half  understood. 

She  did  not  say  much — her  heart  was  too  full  for  that ;  but 
as  she  sat  in  the  dusk  of  that  still  October  evening,  going  over 
the  past — the  careless,  unthinking  past — and  dwelling  on  the 
future  that  lay  before  her,  her  thoughts  were  turned  into  some- 
thing more  than  mere  wishes  that  the  days  which  were  coming 
might  be  better  than  those  that  were  gone.  There  was  an  earnest 
prayer  for  higher  aims,  and  more  strength  of  purpose,  than  she 
had  ever  yet  possessed  ;  and  the  very  few  words  which  were  all 
Mary  then  said  to  her  in  the  way  of  advice  or  direction,  went  far 
to  strengthen  the  impressions  and  resolves  of  that  hour.  They 
went  all  the  farther,  perhaps,  because  they  were  so  few ;  and 
more  still  because  they  were  borne  out  by  her  cousin's  own  prac- 
tice.    Lisa  never  forgot  them. 

That  night,  when  she  was  alone  in  her  little  room  for  the  last 
time,  she  lingered  long  at  her  window,  unable  to  realise  to  herself 
that  her  life  at  the  Priory  had  drawn  to  its  close ;  and  that  at 
that  hour  on  the  morrow  she  would  be  far  away  from  the  place 
that  for  so  many  years  had  been  her  home.  Siie  looked  round 
on  the  bare  walls,  the  uncarpeted  floor,  and  shabby  furniture, 
and  felt  it  would  cost  her  a  pang  to  leave  even  these ;  and  then 
she  turned  again  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  into  the  garden, 
where,  through  the  mist,  the  moonlight  was  shining  on  the  lawn, 
and  on  the  half-leafless  lime-trees  that  shaded  the  green- walk,  where 


WEDDING-BELLS.  157 

as  a  child  she  had  danced  and  played,  where  lately  she  had  so  often 
sat  and  talked  with  Percy,  and  where  he  had  first  told  her  of  his 
love.  There,  too,  among  the  trees  close  by,  was  the  old  church, 
where  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  plight  her  troth  to  him ;  and 
its  chimes  were  ringing  out  now  as  they  had  rung  for  years,  and 
as  they  would  go  on  ringing  still  when  she  was  not  there  to  hear 
them.  Familiar  sights  and  sounds  they  all  were ;  and  parting 
from  familiar  things  must  always  bring  a  pang,  even  when  they 
are  to  be  left  for  greater  happiness.  Perhaps  she  might  never 
see  them  again — never  come  back  there  ;  and  if  she  did,  she  could 
never  be  again  what  she  had  been — her  childish  days  would  be 
far  away  in  the  vanished  past.  It  was  with  a  long-drawn  sigh 
that  she  turned  from  her  window  and  prepared  for  rest ;  and 
when  she  knelt  to  pray  that  night  her  prayers  w^ere  longer  than 
usual,  and  very  earnest ;  and  her  young  face  looked  grave  in  its 
intensity  of  thought,  when  at  length  she  fell  asleep  to  dream,  not 
of  the  coming  morrow,  but  of  times  gone  by  ;  and  to  fancy  herself 
again  a  little  child  sitting  by  Mary's  side,  and  learning  from  her 
all  the  best  and  holiest  lessons  that  had  helped  to  influence  and 
soften  her  wild  impetuous  nature. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

WEDDING-BELLS. 


It  was  a  quiet  wedding-party  that  met  in  the  Priory  drawing- 
room  on  the  following  morning,  none  but  a  few  near  relations 
having  been  asked  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony. 

But  although  their  own  numbers  were  small,  poor  Lisa's  wishes 
for  privacy  were  not  attained ;  for,  in  spite  of  the  precautions 
that  had  been  taken  to  keep  the  day  a  secret,  it  had  become  very 
generally  known ;  and  the  church  was  early  filled  with  a  crowd, 
not  only  of  friends  and  acquaintance,  but  of  strangers  from  all 
parts  of  the  town. 


158  ATHERSTONB  PRIORY. 

Percy,  too,  being  a  Crimean  hero,  was  the  subject  of  no  small 
curiosity,  though,  as  he  came  in  at  the  chancel  door  with  Arthur, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  stood  alone  near  the  altar  while  waiting  fur 
the  rest  of  the  bridal  party,  there  were  not  a  few  who  marvelled 
at  Lisa's  choice,  and  wondered  what  there  could  be  in  that  plain, 
dark,  sombre-looking  man  to  have  won  the  heart  of  one  so  young 
and  lovely ;  the  prettiest  bride  that  had  been  seen  in  the  old 
church  for  many  a  long  day,  though  she  was  unconscious  of  the 
gaze  of  admiration  that  followed  her  as  she  passed  up  the  aisle. 
Her  thoughts  were  given  to  the  only  person  of  whose  presence 
there  she  knew  anything ;  and  when  meeting  him  and  kneeling 
by  his  side,  everything  else  was  forgotten. 

It  was  a  bright  autumnal  morning ;  and  the  fresh  wind  stirred 
among  the  trees  that  bordered  the  churchyard  wall,  bringing 
down  in  showers  their  brown  and  yellow  leaves,  and  then  wandered 
on  among  the  tombstones,  to  make  its  way  in  at  the  chancel 
door,  and  play  among  the  folds  of  Lisa's  long  white  veil  and  dress ; 
while  through  a  stained  window  the  sun's  rays  fell  with  a  chas- 
tened glow  on  her  bent  head  and  golden  hair,  and  lighted  up  with 
a  glory  that  was  hardly  of  earth,  the  pale,  pure  beauty  of  her 
youthful  face.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  colour  in  it,  but  there 
were  no  other  signs  of  agitation  about  her;  and  although  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke  the  solemn  words  that  bound  her  for  life, 
was  very  low,  it  was  clear  and  unfaltering ;  and  none  who  heard 
those  earnest  tones  could  doubt  that  they  came  from  her  very 
heart.  Few,  too,  who  saw  the  look  with  which,  as  they  rose 
from  their  knees,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Percy's,  ever  forgot  it. 

The  business  of  signing  names  was  soon  over ;  and  then  the 
little  party  passed  through  the  church  once  more,  and  out  at  the 
western  door;  Lisa,  however,  hardly  so  unconscious  now,  as 
she  had  been  before,  of  the  gaze  of  so  many ;  and  when,  on 
leaving  the  porch,  a  little  girl  stepped  forward  to  offer  her  a 
bouquet,  a  deep  blush  mounted  to  her  pale  face  as  she  looked 
up  and  became  aware  of  the  number  of  curious  eyes  fixed  upon 
her.  A  smile,  very  shy,  but  very  sweet,  was  the  only  thanks 
she  could  give  for  the  flowers ;  and  Percy  felt  her  hand  trem- 
bling on  his  arm  as  he  led  her  on  after  that  moment's  pause. 
Out  into  the  bright  sunshine  they  went ;  the  bells  in  the  old 
tower  ringing  merrily,  and  fresh  airs  blowing  round  them; 
while  in  the  trees  above  their  heads  the  robins  sang,  and  ever 
floating  downward  came  the  autumn  leaves,  clustering  about 


WEDDING-BELLS.  159 

their  path.  They  were  crushed  beneath  Percy's  firm  tread,  and 
Lisa's  dress  swept  them  as  she  passed ;  and  Mary,  whose  eyes, 
dimmed  with  tears,  had  never  been  taken  from  *  her  child,'  saw 
her  smile  once  as  she  stopped  for  a  moment  to  brush  away  some 
that  had  caught  in  her  veil. 

Poor  Mary  !  She  had  hard  work  that  morning  to  keep  back 
her  tears ;  but  she  did  her  part  bravely,  and  no  one  guessed  the 
pang  she  felt  each  time  she  looked  at  the  fair  childish  face  she 
loved  so  well,  and  which  she  knew  she  should  miss  so  sadly  in 
the  long  days  to  come.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  hardly  look 
at  it  enough,  so  often  did  her  eye  turn  to  the  little  figure  at  her 
brother's  side,  and  so  lingering  was  her  glance  when  it  rested 
there.  But  it  would  not  do  to  show  what  she  was  feeling,  and 
least  of  all  to  let  Lisa  suspect  it.  It  would  not  do  to  let  her 
know  what  that  parting  must  be  ;  and  for  her  sake  Mary's  face 
wore  a  cheerful  smile,  and  she  would  not  let  her  spirits  flag. 

But  the  time  for  good-byes  came.  When  breakfast  was  over, 
Lisa  went  to  her  room  to  change  her  dress,  and  Mary  went  with 
her.  She  had  intended  to  make  a  great  deal  of  that  half -hour ; 
but  now  it  was  really  come,  she  could  not  speak  a  word ;  while 
Lisa,  who  seemed  equally  afraid  to  trust  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice,  hurried  through  her  preparations  as  if  unwilling  to  give 
herself  time  to  think ;  and  when  she  was  ready,  left  the  room 
without  even  pausing  for  one  last  look  round. 

They  went  down-stairs  together,  and  in  the  hall  found  all  the 
party  assembled;  Dr  Tennent,  in  a  fidget  as  usual  on  such 
occasions,  thinking  they  would  miss  the  train. 

*  Good-bye,  my  child,'  he  said,  folding  Lisa  in  his  arms  as  she 
came  up  to  him.  ^  You  have  no  time  to  lose.  Percy,  take 
good  care  of  her  and  make  her  happy.'  And  with  a  long  kiss 
he  let  her  go  to  hurry  her  through  the  rest  of  her  leave-takings. 

*  Good-bye,  Lisa ;  I  hope  you  will  remember  what  has  been 
said  to  you  and  do  your  duty ; '  was  Mrs  Tennent's  farewell  j  and 
Lisa  looked  up  at  her  with  her  large  beseeching  eyes. 

*  Aunt  Helen,  I  have  vexed  you  very  often ;  given  you  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,   I  am  afraid.     Won't  you  forgive  me  before 

Igor 

Mrs  Tennent  smiled  coldly.  ^  Forgive  you  !  Oh  yes,  child, 
I  am  not  angry  with  you  ;  though  you  have  never  taken  much 
pains  to  please  me.  But  it  is  not  the  way  of  the  world  to  be 
grateful  for  kindness,  so  I  am  not  disappointed  at  your  being  no 


160  ATPIERSTONE  PRIORY. 

better  tlian  the  rest  of  tliem.  And  I  am  glad  you  see  your 
faults  now,  though  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  done  so 
a  little  sooner,  and  shown  yovLT  sorrow  by  actions  rather  than 
words.     But  I  am  not  angry  with  you.     Good-bye.' 

And  then  came  a  long  round  of  good-byes  from  every  one, 
and  a  very  quiet  one  from  Isabel,  with  a  still  quieter,  *  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy,  Lisa,'  in  a  tone  of  considerable  magnanimity, 
which  had  a  more  freezing  effect  than  was  perhaps  intended. 
But  when  Lisa  came  to  Mary,  she  held  her  tight  in  a  close 
clinging  embrace  that  was  convulsive  in  its  grasp,  though  not  a 
w^ord  was  uttered  by  her,  and  even  tears  were  kept  back. 

'  God  bless  you,  my  darling,'  Mary  whispered ;  it  was  all  she 
could  say,  and  there  was  a  tighter  pressure  still,  but  not  a  sound 
from  Lisa. 

'Now  then,  my  child!  you  can't  stay  there,'  exclaimed  her 
uncle,  in  his  kind  voice,  but  looking  more  in  a  fidget  than  ever. 
*  Let  her  go,  Mary ;  they  '11  lose  the  train  if  they  don't  mind.' 
And  Lisa  loosened  her  hold  then  ;  but  as  she  turned  away,  she 
came  upon  Bar  sitting  on  the  door-mat — Bar,  the  old  house- 
dog, with  whom  she  had  played  and  run  races  ever  since  she 
had  been  a  little  child ;  and  at  sight  of  him  came  the  climax  to 
her  pent-up  feelings.  She  flung  herself  on  the  floor  beside  him, 
and  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  burst  into  a  passionate 
flood  of  tears. 

*  Hallo,  Mrs  Percy  Tennent ! '  exclaimed  Arthur,  who  had 
been  walking  about  all  this  time  with  an  old  white  shoe  in  his 
hand.  *  Hallo,  Mrs  Percy  !  I  think  you  forget  you  are  married. 
Eemember  your  dignity,  if  you  please ;  the  floor  is  not  the  proper 
plnce  for  you  now.'  A  speech  which  caused  a  diversion  by 
raising  a  laugh ;  and  Lisa,  a  little  ashamed  of  herself  for  having 
given  way  when  she  had  meant  to  go  off  so  bravely,  got  up 
hastily  and  brushed  away  her  tears.  She  would  not  even  look 
round  again,  but  without  a  word,  let  her  uncle  lead  her  to  the 
carriage.  Percy  followed  her,  and  the  next  minute  they  were 
off ;  Arthur  carrying  out  his  intention  of  being  the  first  to  wish 
them  good  luck  in  orthodox  fashion,  by  taking  the  initiative  in 
the  shower  of  old  shoes  that  followed  them.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  laughing  and  talking ;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  came  a  loud 
cry  from  little  George,  who  having  now  seemingly  realised  the 
fact  that  his  dear  Lisa  was  gone,  set  up  a  howl  of  mingled  sorrow 
and  defiance  which  startled  everybody. 


WEDDING-BELLS.  161 

And  in  tlie  prevailing  confusion  Mary  made  her  escape,  and 
stole  away  up-stairs.  To  Lisa's  deserted  room  first,  where  she 
picked  up  a  stray  glove,  a  handkerchief,  and  one  or  two  things 
that  had  been  left  there ;  and  after  putting  them  carefully  away 
and  standing  for  some  minutes  looking  round  on  everything  with 
a  dreary  aching  sense  of  desolation  at  her  heart,  she  went  to  her 
own  room  and  sat  down  where,  the  day  before,  she  had  sat  with 
her  cousin  beside  her.  The  red  light  of  the  autumn  sun  streamed 
in  through  the  open  window,  and  she  watched  its  play  upon  the 
floor,  and  the  dance  of  the  shadows  from  the  lime-tree  leaves, 
and  felt  that  for  her  the  best  sunshine  of  the  house  was  gone — 
that  the  light  and  brightness  of  her  life  had  passed  away.  And 
her  thoughts  went  back  then  to  another  time,  long,  long  ago, 
when  far  more  sad  and  desolate  than  now,  she  had  sat  there,  and 
a  little  child  had  come  to  comfort  her ;  a  little  child  of  winning 
beauty,  with  golden  hair^  and  wild,  dark,  shy  eyes;  whose  loving 
ways  and  warm  affection  had  roused  her  from  her  grief,  and 
given  her  new  hopes,  new  interests.  For  years  that  child  had 
been  her  first  thought,  her  chief  care  ;  and  in  her  love  she  had 
found  her  greatest  earthly  happiness.  And  to-day  she  had  given 
her  up.  To-day  she  had  seen  her,  a  child  still  and  lovely  as  ever, 
stand  at  the  altar  as  a  bride,  and  had  heard  her  bid  farewell  to 
the  home  where  she  had  lived  for  so  many  years.  And  in  fancy, 
Mary  saw  before  her  still  that  sweet  girlish  face  in  all  its  beauty, 
and  felt  round  her  yet  the  loving  arms  that  had  been  so  unwilling 
to  let  her  go.  Very  long  it  might  be  before  she  felt  their 
clinging  embrace  again  j  and  long,  very  long,  it  must  be  before 
the  blank  which  that  day  had  made  in  her  life  could  be  filled 
up ;  though  even  in  her  sorrow  she  forgot  to  be  selfish. 

*  Dear  little  Lisa  !'  she  said  to  herself  with  a  sigh;  'my  little 
Lisa,  my  own  child  !  It  is  hard  to  let  you  go.  But  you  will  l^e 
happy — I  hope — yes,  I  am  sure  you  will.  I  would  not  have  to- 
day undone  if  I  could.' 


162  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

^  THIS  SWEET  WEE  WIFE  O'  MINE.' 

The  long  winter  months  were  over,  and  spring,  with  its  sun- 
shine and  its  showers,  its  opening  leaves,  its  early  flowers  and 
lengthening  days,  had  come  round  once  more.  It  was  one  bright 
afternoon  late  in  April  that  Arthur  Darrell  stood  upon  the  plat- 
form at  the  Gainsford  station,  watching  a  London  train  which 
was  slowly  coming  in  more  than  twenty  minutes  after  its  time. 

*  Ah,  Janet,  there  you  are  ! '  he  exclaimed,  as  he  caught  sight 
of  a  well-known  face  at  one  of  the  carriage  windows.  *  Well, 
better  late  than  never.  I  began  to  think  you  wouldn't  come  at 
all.  What  has  made  you  so  behind-hand? '  And  he  made  des- 
perate attempts  to  open  the  door  of  the  carriage  in  which  his 
sister-in-law  was  seated.  Finding  his  efforts  useless,  he  was 
about  to  call  to  a  porter  when  an  unexpected  apparition  behind 
Janet  made  him  pause. 

'  Why,  Nelly,'  he  exclaimed,  '  where  did  you  spring  from  1  and 
Isabel,  too,  I  declare  !  Well,  there  's  no  end  to  wonders  in  this 
world ;  nor,'  with  a  low  bow  to  his  cousins,  *  to  the  rewards  that 
virtue  meets  with.' 

'  And  now  perhaps  you  will  make  yourself  of  some  use,'  said 
Janet  a  little  testily.  *  You  can  leave  your  flourishing  till  we  get 
home.     Oh  dear,  how  hot  it  is,  and  I  am  so  tired  ! ' 

*  You  brought  the  carriage,  of  course  ? ' 

*  I  did,  ma'am.  You  don't  think  I  was  going  to  walk  a  mile 
and  a  half  such  a  day  as  this  when  I  could  have  a  carriage  for 
nothing  'I  Besides,  how  was  I  to  get  you  home  without  it  T  Did 
you  expect  me  to  carry  aU  these  1 '  looking  at  the  various  articles 

iled  upon  the  seat. 

^  You  can  see  thej  are  carried  across  the  platform,  I  suppose  1 ' 
remarked  Janet.  *  And  do  be  quick,  please.  There  are  not  so  many 
after  all ;  for  I  make  a  point  of  never  taking  much  luggage  with 
me  when  I  travel.     It 's  so  tiresome  to  look  after.' 

'  So  it  is,  ma'am ;  I  quite  agree  with  you,'  said  Arthur  gravely. 
'  I  was  just  wondering  how  you  had  contrived  to  manage  with  so 


^  THIS  SWEET  WEE  WIFE  o'  MINE.'  163 

little.  Here  it  comes,  big  carpet-bag,  little  ditto,  travelling-bags, 
one,  two,  three,  four,  five.  And  what  are  these  ?  Oh,  bonnet- 
boxes  of  course  ;  they  are  too  precious  for  the  luggage-van.  And 
here  are  three  dressing-cases,  and  a  bundle  of  cloaks,  shawls, 
railroad-wrappers,  &c.  And  that  ^s  all,  I  do  believe,  except 
books,  newspapers,  parasols  and  umbrellas.  I  wonder  whether 
two  trucks  will  take  everything  to  the  carriage  1 '  in  deep  con- 
sideration of  the  pile  before  him. 

*  Nonsense,  Arthur  ;  pray  see  about  them  quickly  j  you  have  no 
idea  how  tired  I  am.'  And  Janet  walked  off  with  a  little  bag 
and  her  own  parasol  in  her  hand,  Isabel  following  her;  but 
Elinor  lingered  behind  to  help  in  the  identification  of  divers 
trunks  and  portmanteaux  which  were  to  be  sent  after  them.  The 
business  was  a  lengthy  one  apparently,  from  the  time  they  were 
absent,  but  they  made  their  appearance  at  last ;  and  cloaks, 
bags,  &c.,  having  been  tumbled  into  the  carriage,  they  set 
off  in  the  highest  spirits ;  even  Elinor,  being  roused  into  anima- 
tion, and  looking  about  her  with  eager  curiosity  as  they  drove 
through  the  streets  of  Gainsford,  where  she  had  never  been  be- 
fore. 

h  *  We  are  in  a  very  convenient  situation,'  Janet  said ;  '  for  we 
are  near  enough  to  the  town  to  see  plenty  of  people ;  and  yet 
we  have  the  advantage  of  country  air  and  country  walks,  besides 
not  being  far  from  the  sea.' 

*  A  little  of  everything,  and  in  consequence  neither  fish,  flesh, 
nor  fowl,'  remarked  Arthur.  *  And  now,  Isabel,  let  me  hear  what 
happy  chance  has  brought  you  into  this  part  of  the  world.  I 
know  nothing  yet  to  account  for  your  extraordinary  appearance.' 

*  Nothing  very  extraordinary  about  it,'  said  Isabel.  *  It  was 
always  settled,  you  know,  that  I  was  to  come  some  time  this 
summer ;  and  at  first  it  was  arranged  that  Mary  and  I  should 
come  together  in  August.  But  mamma  said  it  would  be  more 
convenient  for  only  one  of  us  to  be  away  at  a  time ;  so  Janet  pro- 
posed I  should  pay  my  visit  now  and  go  back  when  Mary  comes. 
And  then  we  thought  it  would  be  no  bad  thing  for  Elinor  to 
have  a  change  too.     She  has  not  been  well  lately.' 

^  Hasn't  she  1  I  should  never  have  guessed  it.  I  meant  to 
pay  her  a  compliment  on  her  blooming  looks,  only  I  haven't  had 
time  yet.' 

Elinor  certainly  did  look  *  blooming ; '  but  perhaps  it  was  from 
fatigue  and  the  heat  of  the  day — for  the  weather  had  suddenly 


164  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

set  in  very  warm,  and  was  almost  oppressive.  The  afternoon 
sun,  too,  was  shining  full  down  upon  them  ;  and  of  course  it  was 
her  anxiety  to  shade  her  face  from  that,  which  made  her  inter- 
pose her  parasol  so  hastily  between  herself  and  Arthur  as  he  was 
turning  to  look  at  her. 

'Thank  you,  Nelly — but  you  needn't  put  my  eyes  out,'  he 
observed  in  an  injured  tone.  *  Well,  I  congratulate  you  on  your 
spirit — I  had  no  idea  any  of  you  could  have  devised  and  accom- 
plished such  an  achievement  as  getting  away  at  half-a-day's  notice  ; 
you  left  yesterday  of  course  1 ' 

'  Yes,  it  was  settled  yesterday  morning,'  said  Janet ;  '  and  we 
were  off  in  the  afternoon.  Ah,  here  we  are  at  home  ;  and  very 
glad  I  am !     I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so  tired  I ' 

They  were  turning  in  at  some  white  gates  as  she  spoke ;  and  a 
very  pretty  drive  along  the  edge  of  a  well-kept  lawn,  and  under 
some  fine  chestnut-trees,  took  them  up  to  the  entrance  of  a  villa- 
like residence,  standing  on  sloping  ground  and  covered  with 
creepers  of  all  sorts,  which  gave  it  a  cool  and  shady  look,  and 
made  Elinor  declare  it  one  of  the  prettiest  places  she  had  ever 
seen.  She  was  so  delighted  with  it,  that  instead  of  going  indoors 
when  they  alighted,  she  went  round  with  Arthur  to  have  a  look 
at  the  other  side ;  while  Janet  disappeared  in  all  haste  to  give 
orders  for  the  accommodation  of  her  visitors ;  and  Isabel  took 
refuge  in  the  drawing-room  until  her  own  room  should  be  ready 
for  her.  They  did  not  all  meet  again  until  nearly  dinner-time ; 
and  then  Elinor  appeared  in  a  state  of  perfect  rapture  at  the  beauty 
of  every  thing,  and  the  lovely  views  that  were  to  be  seen  on  all  sides. 

*  I  had  no  idea  it  was  half  so  pretty,'  she  exclaimed.  By-the- 
by,  where  does  Lisa  live,  Janet  1     Is  it  far  from  here  1 ' 

*  Yes — no — well,  it 's  about  ten  minutes'  walk.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  call  that  far  or  not.' 

*  Not  very  far  certainly,'  said  Elinor,  a  little  puzzled  at  her 
cousin's  tone. 

*  Not  far  1  Oh  !  well,  she  does  then.  I  suppose  we  shall  see 
more  of  her  now  you  are  here ;  or  else  she  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
favouring  us  with  many  visits.' 

*  Ahem,'  said  Arthur ;  *  that 's  rather  good,  Jenny  ;  consider- 
ing they  have  only  been  here  since — when  was  it  they  came  1 ' 

'  Before  Christmas,'  said  Janet  tartly. 

*  Before  Christmas,  was  it  ?  Well,  anyhow,  considering  that 
two  months  of  that  time  you  have  been  away,  and  that  for  another 


165 

three  or  four  weeks  Percy  was  ill,  it 's  early  to  begin  to  complain 
of  want  of  sociability.' 

*  Is  it  ?  I  don't  think  so.  Besides,  it 's  easy,  from  a  person's 
manner,  to  see  whether  they  care  for  your  acquaintance  or  not. 
But  if  Lisa  don't  want  to  be  friends  with  me,  it 's  her  lookout, 
not  mine.  I  am  sure  I  was  kind  enough  when  she  first  came, 
and  did  everything  I  could  to  be  friendly  and  sociable ;  but  she 
never  seemed  to  care  to  be  much  with  me.  Nobody  would  guess 
we  were  such  near  connections,  to  see  how  little  we  know  of 
each  other.' 

There  was  a  very  quiet,  under  sort  of  laugh  from  Arthur  at 
this  ;  but  Isabel  looked  vexed. 

*  I  am  sure  that  is  not  what  Percy  wishes,'  she  said  hastily. 

*  You  may  be  certain,  J  anet,  it  is  not  his  desire  that  you  and  Lisa 
should  not  be  friends.' 

'  I  daresay  not,'  said  Janet  with  a  smile.  *  But  the  fact  is, 
I  don't  suppose  his  wishes  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  Lisa 
does  just  what  she  pleases.  I  never  saw  anybody  make  them- 
selves so  foolish  as  he  does  about  her.  To  hear  him  talk,  you 
would  suppose  there  was  nobody  like  her  in  the  world.' 

A  smothered  laugh  again  from  Arthur. 

'What  are  you  laughing  for,  Arthur*?'  Janet  asked  sharply. 

*  It  is  true — any  one  can  see  he  worships  her.  I  call  it  ridiculous 
the  fuss  he  makes  about  her.  He  is  as  proud  as  possible 
because  she  gets  very  much  admired.  She  is  considered  a 
great  beauty,  and  made  quite  a  sensation  here  in  the  winter. 
It  is  my  belief  her  head  is  turned  with  all  the  nonsense  she 
hears.  She  seems  to  me  to  think  of  nothing  but  dress,  and 
extravagance  of  all  sorts.' 

*Poor  little  Scaramouch!'  remarked  Arthur,  *  she  used  to  get 
scolded  by  everybody  because  she  didn't  trouble  herself  enough 
about  her  dress;  and  now  you  are  finding  fault  with  her  for 
thinking  too  much  of  it.  What  is  she  to  do  between  you  all,  I 
wonder?  She  always  looks  "uncommon"  pretty;  but  I  don't 
know  that  she  can  help  that.  And  if  Percy  likes  to  see  her  well 
dressed,  perhaps  there  is  no  harm  in  her  consulting  his  taste 
rather  than  yours.' 

'Perhaps  not,'  said  Janet,  'particularly  when  it  happens  to 
agree  with  her  own.' 

'  Well,  I  must  say  I  consider  Scaramouch  wonderfully  im- 
proved.   Whether  it 's  her  dress  or  not,  I  don't  know ;  but  she  *s 


166  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

about  the  prettiest  girl  I  have  seen  anywhere.  And  she  has 
come  out  astonishingly,  too,  lately.  I  was  never  more  surprised 
in  my  life  than  when  I  dined  at  their  house,  the  first  time  after 
I  came  down  here,  and  saw  that  child  sitting  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  really  looking  as  if  she  knew  what  she  was  about. 
She  was  a  wee  bit  nervous,  certainly,  for  it  was  a  large  party ; 
and  she  confessed  to  me  privately  she  didn't  like  it  at  all,  and 
was  dreadfully  frightened ;  but  she  didn't  show  it.  I  had  no 
idea  she  would  ever  be  so  much  of  a  woman  in  her  ways,  and 
I  give  her  great  credit  for  it ;  all  the  more,  too,  because  I  believe 
she  would  far  rather  amuse  herself  with  a  doll  or  a  skipping-rope 
than  play  propriety  in  a  drawing-room.  It  was  only  yesterday, 
indeed,  that  I  caught  her  sitting  on  the  floor  nursing  two  kit- 
tens ;  and  she  looked  so  happy  over  them,  that  I  was  quite  sure 
she  must  be  in  the  habit  of  indulging  in  such  amusements  on 
the  sly.  And  when  I  taxed  her  with  it,  she  did  not  deny  it — she 
seemed  to  consider  it  a  very  proper  and  rational  employment.' 

*  I  can  quite  believe  it,'  said  Janet ;  '  she  is  so  absurdly  child 
ish.  You  saw  her  yesterday,  though,  you  say ;  did  you  tell  her 
I  was  coming  home  1 ' 

*  I  did ;  and  she  seemed  highly  delighted,  and  declared  her 
intention  of  walking  up  this  evening  to  see  you.' 

*  This  evening !' 

*  Yes, — I  won't  swear  her  motives  for  coming  are  purely  dis- 
interested. There  was  something  about  a  parcel  from  Mary  tliat 
she  was  expecting;  she  was  so  eager  about  it,  that  I  presume 
she  is  pretty  sure  to  turn  up.' 

*  Very  likely,'  said  Janet  carelessly.  *  Here  is  Ralph,  however, 
turning  up  now,  which  is  far  more  satisfactory,  for  we  can  have 
our  dinner.  Who  is  that  with  him,  too  ]  Oh,  Cunninghame ; 
when  did  he  come,  I  wonder?' 

As  she  spoke,  Mr  Thorpe's  handsome  face  and  figure  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  He  was  a  little  astonished  at  sight  of  the 
unexpected  visitors,  but  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  be  ex- 
tremely polite;  while  Ralph,  who  followed  him,  took  their 
coming  as  a  matter  of  course,  expressing  no  surprise  whatever 
on  the  subject.  Whether,  indeed,  he  were  aware  of  their  pre- 
sence after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  them  was  doubtful,  for  he 
said  little,  even  to  his  wife,  and  during  dinner  was  absorbed  in 
his  own  meditations,  leaving  the  conversational  part  of  the  enter- 
tainment to  be  supplied  by  his  brother. 


^THIS  SWEET  WEE  WIFE  O'  MINE.'  167 

Arthur  was  in  the  highest  spirits ;  delighted  at  the  unwonted 
sociability  of  the  present  meeting  after  the  solemn  tete-d-t^te  din- 
ners to  which  he  had  been  accustomed ;  for  his  brother's  house 
was  his  home  now,  and  had  been  since  the  termination  of  his 
college  career  early  in  the  spring.  He  had  a  private  tutorship 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Gainsford  while  waiting  for  ordination, 
and  several  hours  of  each  day  were  fully  occupied  with  his  duties; 
but  his  evenings  were  spent  at  Lassell  Lodge,  and  the  addition 
of  two  of  his  cousins  to  the  family  party  was  by  no  means  un- 
welcome. It  was  almost  as  good,  he  declared,  as  being  at  the 
Priory,  and  so  Lisa  would  think ;  she  was  always  talking  of  the 
old  place. 

'  And  here  she  is  ! '  was  his  exclamation,  when,  as  they  were 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  a  ring  at  the  hall-bell 
told  of  visitors.  '  1 11  lay  anything  it 's  little  Scaramouch.  Now 
for  a  scene.'  And  as  a  servant,  opening  the  door,  announced 
^  Major  and  Mrs  Percy  Tennent,'  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  drew 
himself  up  in  an  ecstasy  of  suppressed  expectation  and  amuse- 
ment. 

'  Scaramouch '  was  decidedly  not  the  appellation  for  the  very 
graceful  girl  who  entered  the  room,  and  whose  extreme  beauty 
and  quiet  elegance  of  dress  could  not  fail  to  attract  the  attention 
of  even  the  most  casual  observer.  Badiantly  happy  she  looked, 
too,  though  with  something  still  of  her  old  shyness  about  her ; 
and  her  eye,  as  it  went  round,  had  the  same  half-startled,  wild- 
fawn-like  glance,  which  all  who  had  known  little  Lisa  Kennedy 
remembered  well.  Unchanged  also  she  was  in  many  other  re- 
spects ;  for  upon  seeing  Elinor,  the  momentary  childish  look  of 
surprise,  and  then  the  bright  smile  flashing  like  sun-light  across 
her  face,  were  Lisa  all  over ;  and  so  was  the  warm-hearted  em- 
brace that  followed. 

^  Nelly,  dear  Nelly  !  How  delightful !  How  very  glad  I  am  ! 
You  came  with  Janet,  did  you?  we  never  expected  you  !'  And 
whether  she  were  most  inclined  to  laugh  or  cry  seemed  doubtful, 
while  she  poured  out  a  torrent  of  expressions  of  extravagant 
happiness ;  until  Arthur,  who  was  looking  on  as  if  it  were  a  pan- 
tomimic performance  got  up  for  his  benefit,  interposed,  and 
begged  her  to  reserve  the  rest  of  her  ecstasies,  as  there  was  some 
one  else  there  whom  she  had  not  yet  seen. 

*  Not  Mary,  surely  ! ' 

And  if  it  had  been  Mary,  there  was  no  saying  what  mighX  not 


168  ATHERSTONE  PIIIORY. 

have  happened ;  but  as  her  eye  met  Isabel's,  her  face  fell  con- 
siderably. It  was  only  for  a  moment ;  and  although  afterwards 
she  seemed  pleased  to  see  her  cousin,  the  latter  had  noticed  the 
change,  and  set  her  down  as  insincere  in  her  expressions  of  glad- 
ness. She  was  vexed  also  to  notice  how  often,  while  talking  to 
her,  and  asking  questions  about  home,  Percy's  eye  was  wander- 
ing off  to  Lisa ;  and  how,  unable  from  his  short-sightedness  to 
see  her  well,  he  kept  putting  up  his  glass  to  observe  her  move- 
ments, and  watch  her  face  while  she  was  speaking.  It  was  plain, 
even  during  the  short  half-hour  they  were  at  Lassell  Lodge  that 
evening,  that  Janet's  account  had  not  been  exaggerated — that  he 
was  wrapped  up  in  his  little  wife,  and  worshipped  her  with  an 
almost  adoring  love.  Every  look  and  word  betrayed  it ;  and  if 
Isabel  had  not  been  too  much  annoyed  to  be  amused,  she  might 
have  smiled  to  see  how  completely  he  was  absorbed  in  Lisa. 

They  did  not  stay  very  long,  for  they  had  only  called  on  their 
way  home ;  and  Lisa  said  she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  get  back. 
She  had  her  parcel,  too,  for  which  she  had  come,  and  a  letter 
with  it ;  and  her  eagerness  to  open  both  was  visible  from  the 
way  in  which  she  kept  eyeing  them. 

*  Though  why  Mary  thought  it  necessary  to  write  when  you 
were  sure  to  hear  everything  from  Isabel  and  Nelly,  is  more  than. 
I  can  tell,'  said  Arthur.  *  You  have  had  one  letter  from  her 
already  this  week ;  what  in  the  world  do  you  want  another  for 
so  sooni  I  should  have  thought  this  day  month  would  have 
done.' 

'  This  day  month  ! '  Lisa  looked  horrifiedi  *  Why,  I  have 
a  letter  twice  every  week  regularly.  She  tells  me  everything,  and 
then  I  know  all  that  is  going  on  there.  And  I  write  back  and 
tell  her  all  I  do.     It  is  very  pleasant.' 

*  Is  it  ]  I  should  have  thought  you  were  perfect  plagues  to 
each  other.  So  much  for  my  weak  intellect,  which  is  not  able 
to  appreciate  such  an  amount  of  epistolary  composition.  Well, 
I  will  come  down  to-morrow  and  hear  the  news;  though  of  course 
it 's  all  stale.  I  '11  call  as  I  come  back  from  the  Crawf ords'  in 
the  afternoon.' 

*  Yes,  do,'  said  Lisa ;  '  and  stay  and  dine  with  us.  Isabel  and 
Nelly  are  going  to  spend  the  day  with  me,  and  Janet  says  she 
will  come  in  the  evening,  so  if  you  come  too,  we  shall  be  quite  a 
family  gathering.' 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA.  169 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    COTTAGE   BY    THE   SEA. 

The  cottage  in  whicli  Percy  and  Lisa  were  located  (for  he  had 
shrunk  from  exposing  her  to  the  discomforts  of  barrack-life), 
stood  close  to  the  sea  on  high  ground  overlooking  the  beach, 
which  was  reached  from  their  garden  by  steps  cut  in  the  rock. 
The  house  itself  had  nothing  remarkable  about  it,  being  just 
such  an  one  as  might  be  met  with  any  day  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  large  towns,  and  having  a  dozen  others  all  of  the  same 
size  and  build  in  every  direction  round ;  but  Lisa  had  come  to 
be  attached  to  it,  and  would  have  been  sorry  to  leave  it.  For 
it  was  her  home  now,  and  a  home  where  she  was  very  happy — 
a  home  round  which  all  sorts  of  bright  and  pleasant  associations 
had  gathered.  She  was  fond  and  proud  of  it,  too,  as  being  her 
own — a  place  where  she  could  do  as  she  liked,  and  carry  out  all 
her  little  plans  and  fancies  ;  and  many  were  the  small  changes  and 
improvements  she  had  devised,  until  what  was  originally  a  house 
plainly  furnished  for  letting,  had  become  a  really  pretty  place ; 
the  rooms  filled  with  flowers,  and  birds,  and  books,  and  draw- 
ings, and  the  garden  as  gay  as  taste  and  care  could  make  it. 

That  garden  was  her  especial  deligLt,  for  it  was  sheltered  and 
private,  with  a  magnificent  view  of  the  sea  beyond,  and  close  below 
a  long  reach  of  golden  sand  with  a  line  of  white  breakers  on  it 
which  she  was  never  tired  of  watching,  and  the  sound  of  whose 
waters  ever  rising  and  falling  in  measured  cadence  made  per- 
petual music  for  her  solitary  hours.  Never,  too,  was  there  such 
a  garden  as  that  for  flowers.  The  borders  were  crowded  with 
them,  and  the  warm  and  sunny  stone  walk  before  the  house  had 
stands  of  greenhouse  plants  upon  it  filling  up  the  spaces  between 
the  windows ;  while  every  nook  and  corner  round  had  its  rockery 
or  old  stump  covered  with  trailing  creepers.  Flowers  were  Lisa's 
mania ;  her  house  as  well  as  her  garden  was  full  of  them,  and 
every  room  was  laden  with  their  scent;  vases  standing  on  all 
the  tables,  and  large  pots  in  every  window.  She  had,  indeed, 
made  a  perfect  bower  of  the  place ;  and  in  this  bower  she  was 
flitting  about  on  the  morning  after  Janet's  return;  very  busy 


170  ATHERSTONB  PRIOEY. 

apparently^  thougli  what  she  was  doing  would  have  been  hard 
to  tell.  Trifling  away  her  time,  her  aunt  would  have  said,  and 
perhaps  she  would  have  been  right;  but  there  was  no  one  to 
find  fault  with  her.  So  she  went  on  amusing  herself  very  much 
to  her  satisfaction — walking  in  and  out  of  the  window,  feeding 
her  birds  and  talking  to  them,  arranging  and  re-arranging  her 
flowers,  and  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  cast  a  wistful  glance 
at  Percy,  who  was  still  seated  at  the  breakfast-table  with  the 
morning  paper  before  him.  He  had  been  poring  over  its  con- 
tents for  some  time,  and  perhaps  she  thought  he  had  read  it 
long  enough;  for  when  she  had  fidgeted  about  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  looked  at  the  clock  very  often,  and  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  as  if  making  up  her  mind  upon  some  unde- 
cided point,  she  stole  across  the  room,  and  coming  up  to  the 
back  of  his  chair,  roused  him  suddenly  from  his  studies  by  throw- 
ing her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  half  smothering  him  in  her 
eager  embrace. 

*My  dear  Lisa,  what  is  it^'  he  asked,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak.  *  You  always  treat  me  in  that  barbarous  fashion  w^hen 
you  want  to  get  anything  out  of  me.     What  is  it  now]' 

^I  want  you  to  put  away  that  horrid  paper.  I'm  sure  you 
must  know  it  by  heart.  Won't  you  leave  the  rest  till  this 
evening  r 

He  smiled  as  he  tossed  it  on  a  chair  near.  *  There  it  goes, 
little  woman.  Is  that  all  you  want,  or  is  there  anything  more  1 
1  suppose  so,  as  you  are  hiding  yourself  there.  Why  don't  you 
come  round  where  I  can  see  you  ] '  drawing  her  from  the  back  of 
his  chair. 

Lisa  planted  herself  on  his  knee,  and  looked  a  little  shy,  as 
she  did  sometimes  when  preferring  her  requests;  a  kind  of 
deference,  perhaps,  paid  to  his  superior  age  and  gravity ;  for 
she  was  perfectly  aware  that  her  wish  was  law,  and  that  any- 
thing she  liked  to  ask,  whether  reasonable  or  unreasonable,  would 
be  sure  to  be  granted  if  it  were  within  the  range  of  possibility. 

'  What  is  it,  dearest  1 '  he  asked  again.  *  You  want  some- 
thing, I  am  sure  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  do,*  very  busy  twisting  her  fingers  in  the  braid  of  his 
coat.  ^I  want  something  very  much;  and  I  am  wondering 
whether  you  will  do  it  for  me.' 

*  Of  course  I  will,  dear,  if  I  can.  Is  it  anything  to  be  done 
now  ? ' 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA.  171 

'Well,  not  just  this  minute,  exactly;  but  I  should  like  to 
know  about  it.  It 's  something  for  next  week  ;  and  I  have  been 
thinking  of  it  ever  since  you  told  me  last  night  you  would  have 
to  go  to  Hoole.     Can't  you  guess  what  it  is  ?' 

*  Not  at  all ;  unless,  indeed — perhaps  you  want  to  go  and 
stay  with  Janet  while  I  am  away/ 

Lisa  made  a  face  of  considerable  disgust.  *  Percy,  how  can 
you  say  such  things  !  and  when  you  know  I  don't  like  her  V 

'  No,  but  now  Isabel  and  Nelly  are  there,  it  will  be  different. 
You  would  like  being  with  them ;  and  indeed,  dear  Lisa,  I 
think  it  would  be  the  best  thing  you  could  do.  I  don't  at  all 
like  the  idea  of  leaving  you  here  alone.' 

^  No,  that 's  the  very  thing,  Percy,'  and  she  hid  her  face  on 
his  shoulder ;  '  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  me.  Why  won't  you 
take  me  with  you  1  it  would  make  me  so  happy  !  I  should  be 
miserable  here  without  you ;  and  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Lassell 
Lodge.     Let  me  go  with  you,  please,'  in  a  very  coaxing  tone. 

Percy's  face  fell  at  this  request.  'My  dear  Lisa,  I  wish  I 
could.  I  would  take  you  most  willingly,  if  it  were  possible  ; 
but  the  fact  is,  it  is  simply  out  of  the  question.  There  is  not  a 
lodging  near  fit  for  you  to  go  into.  I  asked  about  it  yesterday ; 
and  every  one  told  me  it  would  never  do  to  take  a  lady  there.' 

Lisa  looked  extremely  disappointed ;  but  it  was  only  for  a 
moment.     Her  face  brightened  again. 

*  I  dare  say  some  people  are  a  great  deal  more  particular  than 
I  am,'  she  said.  *  I  shouldn't  care  at  all  what  sort  of  place  I 
was  in  if  I  were  with  you,  Percy ;  and  I  don't  take  up  much 
room — you  might  put  me  anywhere  almost.  I  wouldn't  mind 
how  uncomfortable  I  was.  I  should  like  any  place  if  you 
would  only  let  me  go.  Don't  you  think  you  will  ?  Don't  you 
think,  at  any  rate,  you  are  going  to  say  you  will  think  about 
it  ] '  looking  at  him  with  one  of  her  most  winning  smiles. 

He  smiled  a  little  too — stroking  her  bright  hair  fondly  in  the 
meantime.  He  did  not  see  what  good  was  to  be  done  by 
thinking  about  it ;  but  he  could  not  say  'no'  to  her,  and  there 
was  no  harm  in  promising  to  do  what  he  could. 

'  Well,  dear,'  he  said  after  some  consideration,  '  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do — I  will  go  over  this  afternoon  and  have  a  look  at 
the  place  ;  and  if  there 's  any  sort  of  a  lodging  to  be  had,  I  will 
take  it  for  you.  Only  you  must  promise  me  not  to  be  very 
much  disappointed  if  I  don't  succeed.' 


172  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY. 

*  To  be  sure  I  will ;  and  think  it  very  good  of  you  to  have 
tried.  I  won't  say  I  shan't  feel  disappointed,  because  I  want  to 
go  with  you  ;  but  I  won't  say  anything  about  it.  What  time 
will  you  be  back  this  evening,  I  wonder  % ' 

*  I  don't  know — not  till  late.  I  shall  go  directly  I  get  away 
from  the  barracks,  and  you  had  better  not  expect  me  until  jow. 
see  me.  You  will  have  to  make  my  excuses  to  Janet  and  the 
others,  and  tell  them  how  it  is.  I  can't  put  it  off,  as  we  go  on 
Saturday.' 

A  reminder  which  made  Lisa  look  very  blank. 

*  0  Percy !  you  must  be  sure  and  find  some  place  for  me. 
Fancy  being  away  from  you  for  a  fortnight !  What  should  I 
do  %  And  you  don't  want  to  leave  me  either,  do  you  *?  Don't 
you  like  having  me  with  you  1  You  tell  me  sometimes  that  I 
make  a  very  nice  little  wife,  and  that  you  wouldn't  part  with 
me  for  anj^thing.     Isn't  it  true  % ' 

'  Yes,  dearest,  indeed  it  is.  Ah,  Lisa,  if  you  knew  half  what 
you  are  to  me  !  What  should  I  do  without  you,  my  little 
summer-bird  % ' 

*  Summer-bird '  was  one  of  his  pet  names  for  her ;  and  Lisa 
smiled. 

*  You  are  not  going  to  do  without  me  ;  when  you  want  to  do 
so,  you  mustn't  make  me  so  happy  as  I  am  now.  Do  you 
know,  Percy,  I  wonder  sometimes  if  there  is  anybody  in  the 
world  so  happy  as  we  are.  I  don't  believe  there  is.  I  am 
almost  sorry  Isabel  and  Nelly  are  here,  and  that  we  shan't  be 
alone  so  much  as  we  have  been — our  evenings  especially  have 
been  so  pleasant.  We  must  make  the  most  of  our  time  while 
we  are  at  Hoole.' 

Percy  looked  at  her  anxiously.  '  My  dear  Lisa,  you  are  not 
going  to  build  upon  my  being  able  to  find  any  lodgings  there  ] 
You  have  promised  me  you  won't  be  disappointed  if  I  don't. 
You  will  remember  that  % ' 

*  No,  of  course  not,'  she  said  gaily ;  *  only  I  am  sure  you  will, 
because  you  know  how  much  I  care  about  it.'  But  here  the 
striking  of  the  clock  warned  Percy  that  he  ought  to  be  off. 
With  many  injunctions  to  her  to  take  care  of  herself,  he  went 
away  ;  wondering  in  his  own  mind  how  she  would  take  the  dis- 
appointment which  he  felt  certain  was  in  store  for  her,  and 
dreading  nothing  so  much  as  to  see  a  cloud  upon  the  bright 
face  which,  ever  since  they  had  been  married,  it  had  been  his 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA.  173 

daily  boast  to  himself  liad  never  once  been  crossed  by  even  a 
passing  shade  of  sadness. 

Isabel  and  Elinor  came  down,  as  they  had  promised,  to  spend 
the  day  at  the  cottage,  walking  in  between  ten  and  eleven,  and 
Janet  with  them ;  although  the  latter  did  not  mean  to  stay — 
she  would  return  in  the  evening,  she  said,  with  Arthur.  Lisa 
told  her  of  Percy's  projected  expedition,  which  seemed  to 
entertain  her  greatly. 

*  He  won't  get  any  lodgings  there,'  she  said.  *  It  is  the  most 
out-of-the-way  place  in  the  world.  You  are  not  obliged  to  go 
and  bury  yourself  there,  are  you  1 ' 

*  I  am  not  obliged,  but  he  is.  They  are  going  out  surveying 
for  some  forts  that  are  to  be  built  there.  He  will  often  have  to 
be  away  this  summer,  I  am  afraid  ;  and  he  won't  be  back  now  for 
quite  a  fortnight.  It  is  such  an  immense  time  to  be  alone,  you 
know.' 

'  So  it  is,'  said  Janet,  with  a  laugh.  *And  so  you  thought  of 
going  after  him,  did  you  ?  But  you  won't  be  able ;  it  is  quite 
out  of  the  question.  It  is  the  most  miserable,  out-of-the-way 
place  imaginable.  I  have  been  there  once  or  twice — driven 
through  it,  for  it  is  rather  pretty  in  that  direction.  It  is  close 
to  the  sea — quite  a  village,  and  a  very  lonely  one  too.  As  for 
getting  lodgings  there,  you  might  as  well  look  for  them  in  the 
desert.  It 's  nearly  seven  miles  from  any  station,  to  begin 
with.     How  does  Percy  mean  to  get  there  ? ' 

'  1  don't  know — he  didn't  say.  I  suppose  he  11  go  by  train 
as  far  as  he  can,  and  walk  the  rest  of  the  way.'  And  Lisa,  who 
did  not  want  to  hear  of  any  more  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the 
attainment  of  her  wishes,  dropped  the  subject;  much  to  the 
displeasure  of  Isabel,  who  thought  she  treated  very  lightly  any 
trouble  Percy  might  h'ave,  so  long  as  she  could  get  her  own  way 
in  what  was  apparently  a  mere  fancy.  She  made  no  remark, 
however,  and  when  Janet  went  away  the  topic  was  not  renewed, 
Atherstone  news  being  discussed  instead;  and  then  Lisa  had 
the  happiness  of  showing  her  new  home  to  some  one  from  the 
Priory.  And  if  the  place  had  been  a  palace,  she  could  not  have 
been  prouder  of  it  than  she  was ;  and  the  glee  with  which  she 
went  about  displaying  her  treasures,  and  showing  her  many 
contrivances  for  making  the  cottage  one  of  the  pleasantest 
dwellings  that  could  well  be  imagined,  was  pretty  to  see.  She 
was    proud   of  everything — of  her    garden  with   its   beautiful 


174  ATHERSTONE  PBTORY. 

sea-view — of  tlie  house  itself  with  its  sheltering  shrubs  and 
overhanging  creepers  —  of  her  little  drawing-room  with  its 
tasteful  arrangements,  its  ornaments  and  engravings,  its  flowers 
and  books,  its  handsome  piano — this  last  Percy's  present  to  her 
when  they  had  first  returned  from  their  wedding  tour ; — she 
was  proud  of  all  both  within  and  without ;  and  perhaps  not  the 
least  proud  of  her  own  room,  which,  with  its  pale  blue  and 
white  hangings,  its  pretty  carpet  and  low  couches,  its  cheval- 
glass  and  its  dressing-table  covered  with  all  the  appliances 
needful  for  a  lady's  toilette,  formed  no  small  contrast  to  her 
bare  closet  in  the  old  house  at  Atherstone. 

*  Lane  arranges  all  that  for  me,'  she  said,  half  apologetically, 
in  answer  to  some  remark  of  Isabel's  as  to  much  being  by  no 
means  necessary.  '  Lane  arranges  all  that.  She  likes  me  to 
have  things  in  that  way,  for  she  was  used  to  it  when — she  lived 
with  my  mother,'  she  was  about  to  have  added ;  but  something 
made  her  stop  short,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  shade  upon 
her  face.  But  Elinor  took  up  a  set  of  coral  ornaments  that  lay  on 
the  table  and  began  admiring  them,  and  she  brightened  up  again. 

*  Yes,  are  they  not  pretty  ?  Percy  gave  them  me  when  we 
were  in  Paris.  I  like  them  better  than  anything  I  have ;  though 
he  has  given  me  a  great  many  other  things  too ; '  opening  her 
dressing-case  as  she  spoke,  and  displaying  with  childish  delight 
her  various  possessions — possessions  so  numerous,  and  some  of 
them  of  so  much  value,  that  Isabel  grew  very  grave  as  she 
looked.  What  had  her  brother  been  about  to  be  so  lavish  in  his 
expenditure  on  his  idol  ?  Surely  he  might  have  known  that  such 
things  were  far  from  suitable  for  his  wife's  age  or  station  ;  and 
if  any  one  but  Lisa  had  been  concerned,  he  would  have  been  the 
first  to  see  the  folly  of  such  extravagance.  She  stood  in  silent 
vexation,  while  her  cousin  displayed,  and  Elinor  admired. 

*  I  am  almost  afraid  now  to  say  I  like  a  thing,'  Lisa  said,  *  for 
he  is  sure  to  get  it  for  me  if  he  can.  He  is  so  very  kind.  I 
don't  mean  only  in  giving  me  things,'  she  added  with  a  smile, 
*  but  in  every  way.  You  don't  know  how  very  good  he  is  !  We 
are  so  happy.' 

'  And  you"  never  find  it  dull  *? '  Elinor  asked. 

'  No — yes,'  she  hesitated.  *  A  little,  sometimes ;  the  mornings 
are  very  long.  I'm  all  alone  then,  you  know;  and  though  I 
work  and  practise,  the  time  never  goes  very  fast.  But  the 
afternoon  makes  up  for  everything.    We  go  out  then ;  sometimes 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA.  175 

for  a  walk  or  a  long  drive  into  the  country,  and  sometimes  on 
the  beach  and  sit  among  the  rocks,  and  he  reads  to  me.  I  like 
that — it 's  so  pleasant  to  sit  within  sound  of  the  waves,  and  listen 
to  things  one  cares  for.  And  in  the  evening  I  play  to  him,  or 
else  he  reads  to  me  again  while  I  work.  When  we  first  came 
here  we  used  to  go  out  a  great  deal,  but  we  don't  now  nearly  so 
much ;  and  I  must  say  I  like  our  home  evenings  the  best.  I 
like  having  Percy  all  to  myself.' 

Poor  Lisa  !  the  words  came  out  innocently  enough,  but  they 
were  no  sooner  uttered  than  she  saw  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take. Elinor,  indeed,  only  laughed ;  but  Isabel  turned  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out  with  an  air  which  told  unmis- 
takably what  her  thoughts  were;  and  Lisa's  momentary  silence 
showed  she  had  understood  the  movement.  She  closed  her 
dressing-case  hastily,  and  suggested  a  visit  to  Lane — a  proposi- 
tion to  which  Elinor  at  once  acceded.  Isabel,  however,  declined 
it.  She  was  tired,  she  said ;  and  instead  of  accompanying  them 
she  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she  established  herself 
with  a  book,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  saw  but  little  of 
her  sister  and  cousin.  She  heard  their  voices  about  the  garden, 
but  although  Lisa  came  in  several  times  with  an  entreaty  to  her 
to  join  them,  or  an  offer  to  come  and  sit  with  her,  both  were  as 
often  declined.  She  preferred  being  alone,  she  said  ;  and  alone 
she  sat  until  some  callers  disturbed  her  solitude,  and  brought 
her  cousin  in  from  the  garden  to  see  them.  But  even  then  she 
did  not  exert  herself  to  be  agreeable  ;  she  was  only  intent  upon 
watching  Lisa,  whose  prettily  shy  manner  and  heightened  colour, 
though  in  keeping  with  her  extreme  youth,  were  not  what  she 
would  have  wished  to  see  in  her  brother's  wife.  They  were 
too  childish — not  self-possessed  enough ;  and  yet  even  when 
criticising  her  cousin's  want  of  womanliness,  she  blamed  her 
still  more  for  the  approach  to  lightness  and  coquetry,  which 
now,  as  often  before,  she  thought  she  detected  in  her  manner. 
But,  prejudiced  as  she  was,  it  was  no  wonder  she  did  not  under- 
stand Lisa ;  that  she  misconstrued  into  a  lower  motive  her 
anxiety  to  please. 

Lisa  breathed  a  long  sigh,  which  sounded  very  like  one  of 
relief,  when  her  visitors  were  gone  ;  and  then  she  turned  to  her 
cousin. 

'  You  are  not  well,  Isabel,  are  you  ?  Does  your  head  ache  ? ' 
she  asked. 


176  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

A  rebuke  to  her  for  her  unsociability  Isabel  considered  the 
question,  and  she  answered  rather  shortly,  ^  Not  at  all,  thank 
you.' 

*  You  are  tired,  then  ?  * 

'Not  very— a  little,'  and  she  took  up  again  the  book  she  had 
been  reading. 

Lisa  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  went  away, 
but  it  was  only  to  ask  Lane  to  let  them  have  some  tea ;  and  she 
came  back  so  eager  to  wait  upon  her  cousin,  and  so  anxious  for 
her  to  have  everything  just  as  she  liked,  that  it  was  quite  a  pity 
Isabel  should  have  appeared  so  little  pleased.  Later  on  in  the 
afternoon,  when  her  sister  and  cousin  again  went  out  for  a  walk 
on  the  beach,  she  once  more  declined  to  accompany  them.  This 
time,  however,  when  left  alone,  she  did  not  read.  She  sat,  lost 
in  thought,  watching  the  deep  swell  of  the  sea,  and  the  light 
upon  the  hills  beyond  the  bay,  the  light  from  her  own  face 
fading  away  while  she  looked,  and  in  its  stead  a  darkness 
gathering —  a  reflection,  perhaps,  of  the  dark  thoughts  that  filled 
her  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN. 


It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  that  evening  before  Percy  returned, 
and  one  glance  at  his  face  told  Lisa  he  brought^  no  good  news. 
His  search  had  been  in  vain ;  and,  completely  tired  out,  he  had 
been  obliged  to  return  without  being  any  nearer  the  attainment 
of  his  object  than  when  he  set  out. 

Weary  as  he  was,  however,  he  had  no  thought  for  anything 
but  her  disappointment ;  and  when  he  saw  the  eager  look  with 
which  she  had  come  to  meet  him  change  at  the  first  glance  at 
his  countenance,  he  felt  a  pang  almost  as  bitter  as  if  he  were  to 


ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN.  177 

blame  for  his  failure.  She  did  not  say  a  word,  but  tlie  colour 
mounted  to  her  face,  and  tears,  the  first  he  had  seen  since  the 
day  they  left  the  Priory,  rushed  to  her  eyes.  Her  disappointment 
was  grievous ;  nor  was  Janet's  exclamation,  *  I  told  you  so,  Lisa ; 
I  knew  it  was  ridiculous  trying,'  at  all  calculated  to  lessen  it. 

'  I  am  very  sorry  dearest,'  he  said.  *  I  did  all  I  could,  but  it 
was  useless ;  and  really  the  place  is  such  a  hole  that  I  should 
hardly  like  to  have  had  you  there  even  if  I  had  found  a  lodging. 
But  there  are  none  to  be  had  of  any  description.  I  did  my  best; 
I  am  sorry  it  has  been  of  no  use.' 

*  Never  mind,  Percy,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  ^  I  won't  care 
about  it.  Thank  you  for  going,  it  was  very  kind  of  you;  and 
if  you  couldn't  find  anything  it  can't  be  helped.  I  won't  think 
of  it  again.' 

^  Thank  you,  dear.'  He  brightened  up  at  the  tone  in  which 
this  was  said ;  and  sitting  down  on  a  sofa  near,  relapsed  into 
silence.  He  was  too  tired  apparently  for  conversation — so 
tired,  indeed,  that  while  Lisa  was  giving  directions  for  a  more 
substantial  meal  than  they  generally  had  at  that  hour,  he  fell 
fast  asleep,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  looking,  as  Arthur 
remarked,  ^  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  been  walking  himself 
to  death.' 

*  Yes,  I  think  it  was  a  pity,  Lisa,  you  asked  him  to  go,'  said 
Isabel.  *  You  must  have  known  how  unlikely  it  was  he  would 
find  lodgings  in  such  a  place  as  that.  And  if  he  had,  there  was 
the  expense.  You  ought  to  have  considered  that,  besides  all  the 
trouble  you  were  giving  him.' 

Lisa  was  silent ;  she  seemed  to  be  engrossed  with  seeing  how 
much  tea  she  had  put  in  the  tea-pot. 

*  My  dear  Isabel,  don't  talk  about  what  you  don't  understand,' 
said  Arthur,  sagely.  '  Don't  you  know  that  if  she  asked  for 
Cinderella's  slipper,  or  the  great  Mogul's  crown,  he  wouldn't 
think  it  too  much  trouble  to  set  off  in  search  of  them.  And  as 
for  expense— oh  no,  we  never  mention  that.  What  husband 
would  think  of  making  objections  on  that  score  V 

'  That  is  only  nonsense,  Arthur,'  said  Isabel,  gravely.  *  Lisa 
knows  Percy's  income  is  not  large.  And  if  he  is  inclined  to 
indulge  her,  the  more  reason  she  should  think  twice  before  she 
asks  for  what  she  wants.  You  needn't  make  her  more  extravagant 
by  those  foolish  speeches.' 

Arthur   shrugged   his   shoulders.      ^If   she's    going   to   turn 

M 


178  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

extravagant,  I  don't  think  it  will  be  my  doing ; '  with  a  signifi- 
cant glance  at  the  sofa.  '  Percy  hasn't  been  waiting  for  me  to 
put  her  up  to  it.  He  never  says  ''  no  ^'  to  you,  Lisa,  does 
he  ?  He  is  too  wise  for  that.  His  maxim  is,  "  Give  a  woman 
everything  she  asks  for,  and  you  will  have  peace  in  your  house." 
It  shall  be  mine  too  when  I  marry ;  my  wife  shall  never  have  a 
wish  ungratified.' 

'Your  means  will  have  to  be  unlimited  then,'  said  Isabel, 
drily.  *  And  all  I  can  hope  is,  I  may  never  have  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  her.' 

*  Indeed  !^  with  an  odd  look.  *  And  why  not]  She  will  be  a 
very  charming  person,  I  can  tell  you.' 

'  I  doubt  it.  I  think  she  will  be  exceedingly  disagreeable. 
People  who  have  their  own  way  always  are.' 

'  Hallo,  Scaramouch,  that 's  a  hit  at  you.  What  a  pity  Le 
Balafre  should  let  you  make  yourself  such  a  nuisance  !' 

Lisa  smiled  at  the  recollections  conjured  up  by  that  old  name. 

'How  silly  I  was  in  those  days  !'  she  said,  looking  at  Percy 
with  very  loving  eyes. 

'  In  what  days  ] '  asked  Arthur. 

'  In  what  days !  Why,  when  I  knew  nothing  of  him,  and 
used  to  say  those  foolish  things  of  him.     I  was  very  silly  then.' 

'  You  were  ?  and  now  you  are  wiser,  of  course.  You 
have  altered  your  opinion.  Plain  men  with  black  hair  w^ere 
your  special  detestation,  I  remember ;  and  that  Indian  decoration 
which  won  him  ' 

Lisa  coloured.  '  You  needn't  remind  me  of  all  that,  Arthur,' 
she  said  hastily.  '  I  was  foolish  then,  but  I  know  better  now,'  she 
added  in  a  voice  trembling  with  earnestness  ;  *  and  if  I  am  proud 
of  all  these  medals  he  wears,  I  am  prouder  still  of  that.  It  is 
the  best  and  noblest  of  all,  and  I  would  not  have  him  without  it 
for  worlds.  My  dear  Le  Balaf r^  ! '  she  exclaimed  with  great 
emphasis,  and  stooping  down  over  the  sofa  where  Percy  was 
sitting,  she  pushed  back  his  hair  to  kiss  his  forehead  in  her 
eager  way — an  action  which  woke  him  up,  while  Arthur's  hearty 
laugh,  and  '  Well  done,  Lisa  1 '  made  him  ask  what  was  the 
matter. 

'  Only  Lisa  rhapsodising,'  was  the  answer,  while  Isabel  ex- 
claimed impatiently,  *  How  silly  of  you,  Lisa  !  What  did  you  do 
that  for  ?  You  might  let  him  be  quiet,  when  you  see  how  tired 
he  is.' 


ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN.  179 

Lisa  looked  penitent.  *  I  'm  very  sorry — I  didn't  mean  to 
wake  him.  Bnt  he  couldn't  have  slept  much  longer,  for  tea  is 
just  ready,  and  I  'm  sure  he  wants  that ;  and  then  he  can  sleep 
as  long  as  he  likes,  and  I  won't  disturb  him  again.' 

*I  had  no  business  to  be  asleep  at  all,'  Percy  remarked;  *you 
were  quite  right  to  wake  me  up.  I  'm  sure  I  beg  everybody's 
pardon  for  being  so  rude;'  he  looked  at  Janet,  who.  however, 
only  laughed ;  while  Isabel,  who  still  appeared  vexed,  repeated 
that  *  Lisa  might  have  known  better,  it  was  just  like  her — she 
was  so  thoughtless.' 

*  Thoughtless,  is  she  ? '  said  Percy,  turning  to  his  little  wife, 
whose  bright  eyes  were  dimmed  at  this  accusation.  *  That  is  a 
mistake,  Isabel.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  met  with  any  one 
who  has  so  much  thought ;  it  is  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders 
sometimes,  isn't  it,  Lisa  1 '  he  added  smiling. 

'  That  was  only  when  you  were  ill,'  said  Lisa  sorrowfully. 
^  You  used  to  tell  me  then  how  thoughtful  I  was ;  but  I  am  not 
always.     Isabel  is  right,  I  am  afraid ;  I  am  ver^/  careless.' 

'  Are  you,  dearest  1  1  don't  think  so.  Isabel  was  not  here 
when  I  was  ill ;  and  all  I  hope  for  her  is,  that  when  she  wants  a 
nurse,  she  will  get  one  as  good  as  you.' 

Lisa  looked  very  bright  again.  *  Yes,  you  liked  having  me  to 
take  care  of  you,  didn't  you  ?  And  I  liked  doing  it  too.  I  was 
so  glad  you  were  not  alone  without  anybody  to  look  after  you ; 
you  would  have  been  so  dull.' 

^  So  I  should ;  instead  of  being  just  the  contrary.  For  that 
was  the  best  of  you,  Lisa — you  were  always  smiling  and  cheerful, 
and  yet  you  must  often  have  been  tired  enough,  little  woman.' 

^Was  11  No;  I  don't  think  so.  I  was  too  happy  taking 
care  of  you  to  be  tired.  I  was  afraid  at  first  you  would  miss 
Mary,  and  want  her  with  you ;  but  you  didn't,  and  I  was  very 
glad.  I  am  the  proper  person  to  do  everything  for  you  now, 
you  know.' 

And  she  seemed  so  happy  with  this  thought,  that  she  forgot 
the  momentary  vexation  caused  by  her  cousin's  remarks.  For 
the  short  remainder  of  the  time  Isabel  was  at  the  cottage  that 
evening,  she  was  very  grave  and  silent ;  and  she  was  the  first  to 
propose  the  return  of  their  party  to  Lassell  Lodge,  hurrying 
Janet  by  representing  how  tired  Percy  loeked — she  was  sure  he 
would  be  glad  to  be  alone.  Her  last  look  back,  as  they  went 
down  the  road,  brought  no  pleasant  thoughts  to  her  disturbed 


180  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

mind ;  for  it  showed  her  her  brother's  tall  figure  standing  out 
against  the  light  that  streamed  through  the  open  door,  while 
Lisa  was  beside  him,  with  both  her  hands  clasped  on  his  arm,  and 
her  face  raised  to  his,  with  such  a  winning  smile,  as  might  well 
excuse  the  admiration  wdth  which  he  stood  regarding  her. 
Isabel's  sigh  as  she  looked  w^as  a  very  long  one,  and  during  the 
walk  home  she  had  not  a  word  to  say. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room  at  Lassell  Lodge 
on  the  following  afternoon,  when  Percy  walked  in.  Lisa  was  not 
with  him ;  he  had  only  just  returned  from  the  barracks,  he  said  ; 
but  having  met  Janet  and  Nelly,  and  been  told  by  them  that  he 
would  find  her  in,  he  had  come  up  to  see  her  about  something 
he  wished  to  propose.  He  wanted  her  to  stay  at  the  cottage 
with  Lisa  while  he  was  away.  Janet,  he  was  sure  would  have 
no  objection,  as  her  visit  to  Gainsford  was  to  be  a  long  one,  and 
she  would  have  plenty  of  time  to  give  to  Lassell  Lodge  after- 
Avards. 

*  And  I  am  very  anxious  Lisa  should  have  some  one  with  her,' 
he  said.  *  She  will  find  it  lonely,  poor  child,  all  by  herself  ;  and 
although  she  would  of  course  see  you  every  day,  that  is  not  the 
same  thing  as  having  you  in  the  house  with  her.  I  should 
like  you  very  much,  Isabel,  to  go  down  for  a  fortnight.  It 
would  be  pleasant  for  both  of  you,  I  am  sure.  You  have  no 
objection,  I  suppose?'  looking  at  her  with  a  smile. 

But  Isabel  looked  grave,  and  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the 
drawing  before  her. 

^  I  thought  I  heard  Janet  proposing  last  night  she  should  come 
to  us  while  you  are  away,'  she  said.  '  It  seems  to  me  that  would 
be  a  much  better  plan  than  my  going  there.' 

*  Yes.  so  it  might,  if  she  wished  it ;  but  she  does  not.  She 
would  rather  stay  at  the  cottage.' 

Isabel  did  look  up  now  with  some  surprise  expressed  in  her 
face. 

*  You  don't  give  in  to  all  Lisa's  whims  and  fancies,  Percy,  do 
you  ?     V/hy  should  she  object  to  come  here  ? ' 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  which  seemed  to  strike  her 
brother  disagreeably. 

*  You  are  mistaken,  Isabel.  Lisa  is  not  given  to  whims  and 
fancies — no  one  less  so.  But  they  are  very  gay  here,  as  you 
know — a  great  deal  too  gay  for  her  just  now.  She  wants  to  be 
quiet,  and  I  wish  it  for  her  myself.' 


ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN.  181 

^  Oh  !  if  you  wish  it,  that  is  a  different  thing/  and  Isabel  took 
up  her  pencil  again.     '  Did  she  propose  my  going  ? ' 

'  No,  she  said  nothing  about  it.  She  is  so  taken  up,  poor 
child,  with  the  thought  of  my  going,  that  she  has  had  no  time  yet 
to  think  of  what  she  is  to  do  all  alone.  I  did  not  even  tell  her  I 
meant  to  ask  you  to  keep  her  company.  I  thought  I  would  see 
you  first  and  settle  it  j  and  it  would  be  a  pleasant  surprise 
for  her.' 

Isabel  was  silent — engrossed  apparently  with  a  rubbing-out 
process. 

*  It  is  better  for  her  to  have  a  companion  on  every  account,* 
Percy  went  on,  after  a  moment^s  pause.  She  is  too  young  and 
pretty  to  be  left  alone,  and  of  course  she  cannot  shut  herself  up. 
You  are  the  very  person  to  be  with  her,  Isabel ;  and  I  felt  quite 
glad,  when  I  knew  I  had  to  go,  to  think  you  were  here.' 

*  Your  best  plan  will  be  to  find  out  first  from  Lisa  whether 
she  will  like  to  have  me,'  was  the  answer,  in  rather  a  constrained 
voice.  *  It  is  quite  possible  it  may  be  anything  but  the  pleasure 
to  her  that  you  seem  to  think.' 

Percy  set  down  the  ornament  he  was  handling,  and  looked 
at  her. 

*  What  do  you  mean  ?     I  don't  understand  you.' 

*  I  only  mean  what  I  say — that  Lisa  may  not  be  glad  to  have 
me  with  her.  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  the  happy  knack  of  pleasing 
her.  Perhaps  I  speak  a  little  too  plainly ;  and  as  she  is  accus- 
tomed to  have  her  own  w^ay,  she  does  not  like  that.  I  would 
rather  not  make  the  arrangement  till  you  have  asked  her.' 

Percy  w^as  silent  for  a  few  moments  ;  and  when  he  spoke  again 
it  was  in  a  voice  as  constrained  as  her  own. 

'  There  is  no  need  to  ask  Lisa  about  it.  You  don't  wish  it 
yourself,  I  suppose  1 ' 

Isabel  played  with  her  pencil,  and  for  a  minute  seemed  doubt- 
ful what  her  answer  should  be. 

*  Well,  as  you  ask  me,  Percy,  I  must  say  I  don'*,  wish  it,'  she 
replied  at  last,  with  some  hesitation.  *  I  am  quite  sure  it  will  be 
no  pleasure  to  either  of  us.  You  know,  when  I  see  things  I 
don't  like,  I  can't  help  speaking  out ;  and  Lisa  often  takes 
offence,  and  considers  me  unkind  when  I  mean  nothing  of  the 
sort.  And  then,  too,  we  are  not  much  of  companions — we  never 
w^ere.  Our  tastes  don't  assimilate  in  the  least ;  she  is  so  much  of 
a  child;  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  know  how  to  adapt  myself  to  her.' 


182  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Percy's  brow  was  overclouded.  '  Certainly,  if  my  wife  is  so 
little  of  a  companion  as  you  make  out,  the  less  you  see  of  her 
the  better.  I  would  not  for  worlds  have  her  with  any  one  who 
thought  slightingly  of  her.     Good-bye.' 

He  caught  up  his  cap,  and  would  have  been  off  in  a  moment 
had  she  not  stopped  him.  She  rose  from  her  chair  with  an  im- 
ploring look. 

*  Percy,  don't  quarrel  with  me  about  Lisa,'  she  exclaimed 
beseechingly.  *  Why  is  she  always  to  make  misunderstandings 
between  us  1  We  were  happy  together  before  she  came  to  sepa- 
rate us,  and  why  should  we  disagree  now  because  we  don't  think 
alike  about  her  1  Why  should  you  quarrel  with  me  for  not  being 
able  to  think  her  perfection,  as  you  do  ? ' 

*  I  don't  wish  you  to  think  her  anything  of  the  sort,  Isabel ; 
but  I  must  say  I  did  wish  you  to  think  kindly  of  her,  and  to 
love  her.  I  hoped  you  would — that  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  her 
own,  you  would  have  felt'  for  her  as  a  sister.  I  never  thought 
you  would  liave  kept  up  that  foolish  prejudice  you  had  at  the 
time  of  our  marriage.' 

Isabel  coloured.  ^  We  think  differently,  Percy.  I  did  not 
consider  it  a  foolish  prejudice,  nor  do  I  now.  For  Lisa  is  not 
altered ;  she  is  just  the  same  as  she  was  then — ^just  as  little  of  a 
woman,  and  just  as  light  and  trifling.  My  opinion  of  her  is  not 
changed,  and  of  course  my  objections  are  the  same.' 

*  I  thought  your  objections  then  were,  that  she  was  not  suited 
to  me,  and  would  not  make  me  happy ;  and  when  you  see  she 
does,  I  think  it  is  time  for  you  to  change  your  opinion  and  own 
yourself  mistaken.  And  as  for  her  being  a  child,  she  can't  help 
that.  It  is  not  her  fault  that  she  is  only  seventeen  instead  of  five- 
and-twenty ;  and  when  you  expect  your  tastes  and  amusements 
to  be  the  same,  you  forget  the  eight  years'  difference  between  you. 
Instead  of  complaining  of  her  want  of  congeniality,  why  not  try 
whether  you  could  not  make  her  take  an  interest  in  the  things 
you  care  for  ]  Or  if  you  don't  want  to  take  that  trouble,  surely 
it  would  not  have  been  a  great  hardship  to  suit  yourself  for  one 
fortnight  to  her  tastes,  and  make  the  poor  child  happy  in  her 
own  way.  She  is  not  one  to  think  little  of  kindness,  and  I  can- 
not imagine  you  would  have  found  her  so  difficult  to  get  on  with 
as  you  seem  to  fancy.* 

'  If  you  wish  it ' Isabel  began,  with  something  of  an 

effort. 


ANOTHER  LINK  IN  THE  CHAIN.  183 

'  I  don't.  I  don't  wish  you  to  do  anything  that  is  disagree- 
able to  you ;  and  as  you  say  it  would  be  no  pleasure  to  Lisa, 
most  certainly  I  would  rather  you  should  not  make  the  arrange- 
ment.    Nelly  will  not  have  the  same  objections,  I  daresay.' 

And  as  Elinor  at  that  moment  happened  to  come  in  with  Janet 
and  Arthur,  Isabel  drew  back,  and  while  the  proposition  was 
being  made  to  her  sister,  sat  down  again  to  her  drawing,  but  with 
a  flush  upon  her  face  which  betokened  no  little  disturbance  of 
mind.  The  others  were  too  busy  talking  to  notice  her ;  the  only 
remark  made  upon  her  refusal  being  one  from  Janet  to  the  effect 
that  she  was  glad  she  had  declined,  for  she  could  not  spare  her 
then — she  had  had  an  invitation  from  some  friends  that  very 
morning  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  them,  and  she  wanted 
Isabel  to  go  wdth  hjer ;  she  had  only  hesitated  about  accepting  it 
because  she  could  not  take  both  her  and  Elinor ;  but  if  the  latter 
went  to  the  cottage,  it  would  all  be  settled  at  once ;  and  Nelly, 
who  upon  being  first  appealed  to  had  coloured  and  hesitated,  now 
raised  her  eyes,  and  having  looked  round  the  room,  and  appa- 
rently discovered  in  one  of  the  corners  something  to  bring  her  to 
a  decision,  said  she  thought  it  would  be  very  nice — she  should 
like  to  stay  with  Lisa  exceedingly.     And  so  it  w^as  decided. 

*  And  an  awful  shame  it  is ! '  said  Arthur,  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found melancholy.  ^  Here  have  you  three  hardly  been  in  the 
house  two  days,  when  you  are  all  talking  of  going  off  again ;  and 
Ralph  and  I  are  to  be  condemned  to  our  former  state  of  morose 
taciturnity.  Really  this  house  ought  to  be  called  the  ^^  deserted 
home."  What  will  Ralph  say,  Janet,  to  your  making  a  bachelor 
of  him  again  so  soon  1     I  expect  he  11  be  feeling  injured.' 

^  Not  at  all.  I  believe  he  likes  my  being  away  quite  as  well 
as  if  I  were  here.  He  gets  on  just  as  well  without  me.  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  going  yet ;  only  I  want  Isabel  to  go  with  me 
when  I  do  go,  so  she  must  not  tie  herself  to  Lisa.' 

^  Ah,  well,  what  must  be,  must.  I  shall  come  down  to  the  cot- 
tage sometimes,  Nelly,  to  see  how  you  and  Lisa  are  getting  on  ; 
and  the  rest  of  the  time,  I  shall  sit  among  the  ivy  on  the  garden- 
wall  and  play  mournful  airs  on  the  flute.  You  will  find  me, 
when  you  return,  reduced  to  a  shadow,  and ' 

*  And  a  confirmed  rheumatic  subject,  I  should  think,  for  that 
ivy  is  very  damp,'  said  Janet,  cutting  him  short ;  and  then  turn- 
ing to  Percy,  *  Well,  Nelly  shall  come  to  you  on  Saturday. 
What  time  do  you  go  i' 


184  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

And  arrangements  being  finally  made,  Percy  went  away, 
nothing  more  passing  between  him  and  Isabel.  She  hardly 
looked  up  as  he  left  the  room ;  and  her  good-bye  was  in  a  very 
indifferent  voice.  But  whether  she  were  quite  so  unconcerned  as 
she  wished  to  appear  was  doubtful ;  for,  after  he  was  gone,  saying 
something  about  having  a  bad  headache,  she  disappeared,  and 
was  seen  no  more  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE   POOL   AMONG    THE   HILLS. 


*  Percy,  it 's  a  glorious  afternoon  !  You  haven't  forgotten  your 
promise,  have  you  ? ' 

'What,  to  take  you  for  a  drive?  No,  indeed  I  have  not,  and 
the  carriage  is  to  be  here  at  three  ;  it  is  nearly  that  now.* 

Lisa  possessed  herself  of  his  hand,  to  give  it  a  very  tight 
squeeze.  '  Thank  you,  Percy :  you  are  so  kind.  You  don't 
know  how  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  all  morning ;  and  it  will 
be  so  lovely  in  the  country  to-day !  Here — take  this  great  heavy 
thing ! '  and  she  unfastened  his  sword,  which  she  had  buckled 
round  her  waist,  and  which  had  been  trailing  on  the  ground  as 
she  walked.  ^  I  '11  go  and  get  ready  now.'  And  aw^ay  she  went, 
with  her  light  step  and  joyous  face,  singing  gaily. 

'It's  just  the  day  for  the  country!'  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  stood  at  her  window  tying  on  her  bonnet.  *  How  the  sun 
sparkles  on  the  sea,  and  how  hot  it  looks !  If  we  can  get  as 
far  as  the  woods,  it  will  be  delightfully  cool  and  green  there ! 
Dear  me,  how  happy  I  am !  I  wish  everybody  else  was  the  same  ! 
If  only  Percy  were  not  going  to-morrow  !  But  I  won't  think  of 
that — I  '11  be  happy  w^hile  I  can.  I  wonder  where  my  gloves 
are  ! '     And  being  still  at  an  age  which  possesses  the  faculty  of 


THE  POOL  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  185 

looking  forward  very  little  beyond  the  present  moment,  she  be- 
came absorbed  in  a  search  for  the  missing  articles;  tumbling 
over  all  the  things  in  her  drawers  as  she  did  so,  in  a  way  that 
showed  that  Lisa  Tennent  was  not  much  altered  from  the  Lisa 
Kennedy  of  old.  *  Lane  will  be  very  cross  when  she  finds  what 
a  mess  I  've  made  here ;  but  I  can't  help  it. — Oh,  here  they  are ! 
And  there  ^s  the  carriage ! '  And  hearing  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  coming  up  to  the  house,  she  flung  everything  back,  and 
catching  up  her  gloves,  went  off  again,  leaving  no  little  confusion 
behind  her.  But  who  could  stay  to  be  orderly  on  such  a  bright 
Mayday?  Not  Lisa,  certainly.  As  she  went  down- stairs  sing- 
ing again,  she  had  not  a  thought  for  anything  beyond  the  plea- 
sure of  the  next  two  or  three  hours ;  and  past  and  future  lectures 
from  Lane  on  untidy  habits  were  forgotten,  together  with  plenty 
of  good  resolutions  of  her  own  on  the  same  subject. 

What  a  pleasant  drive  that  was !  She  had  had  many  pleasant 
ones  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Gainsford,  but  none  to  equal  this. 
How  green  the  early  leaves  looked,  and  how  beautiful  the  corn- 
fields and  meadows  were  !  and  when  on  their  road  home  again, 
after  a  long  drive  over  hill  and  down,  they  came  to  a  wood  of 
beech  and  silver  birch  trees  which  reminded  her  of  some  place 
near  Copelands,  she  was  in  an  ecstasy ;  while  the  wild  flowers 
which  covered  the  high  banks  threw  her  into  raptures.  She 
could  not  sit  still  any  longer,  but  insisted  on  getting  out,  that 
she  might  fill  her  hands  with  the  anemones,  bluebells  and  other 
beauties  of  the  woods ;  and  the  carriage-seat  was  soon  filled  with 
her  treasures. 

^  This  is  Arthur's  road  every  day,'  Percy  remarked  as  they 
walked  on  together.  *  The  Warren  is  not  half  a  mile  off;  it  lies 
just  down  there.' 

*  Does  it  1  Perhaps  we  shall  see  him  then  :  isn't  this  about 
the  time  he  leaves?  O  Percy,  how  pretty!  Do  look  at  the 
shadows  there ! ' 

They  stood  upon  the  edge  of  a  broad  pool  of  water,  which, 
half  in  sunshine,  half  in  shade,  stretched  far  away  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  wood.  The  breezes  played  upon  its  surface,  and 
the  clear  light  from  above  looked  down  into  the  dreamy  dark- 
ness of  its  centre  depths  ;  only  under  its  steep  banks,  overgrown 
with  long  rank  grass  and  tangled  brushwood,  stillness  and 
shadow  lay ;  and  the  old  trees  that  drooped  over  it  with  their 
gnarled  and  twisted  boughs,  made  those  shadows  the  more  pro- 


186  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

found.  Lisa  was  struck  by  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  spot 
almost  as  much  as  by  its  loveliness. 

^  How  beautiful  it  is  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  And  how  wild !  Who 
would  believe  it  was  so  close  to  the  road  ! — though  I  suppose 
many  people  don't  come  this  way  ?  Or  does  it  lead  to  any  other 
place  besides  the  Warren  1 ' 

^No,  only  there,  and  out  into  the  highroad  again.  This  is 
part  of  the  Crawford  property :  they  have  a  great  deal  in  the 
neighbourhood.' 

'Have  they*?  Well,  it's  a  lovely  place,  but  very  dreary,' 
looking  at  the  dark  water  before  her.  *  Not  now — I  don't  mean 
by  daylight — it  is  only  wild  and  beautiful  now ;  but  by  night — 
I  shouldn't  like  to  come  here  then.  I  could  fancy  all  sorts  of 
dreadful  things  done  here  in  the  darkness  ! ' 

Percy  smiled.  *What  have  you  to  do  with  darkness,  sum- 
mer-bird?' he  said  lightly.  *  You  were  made  for  light  and  sun- 
shine, not  for  the  night.  Here — sit  down  on  this  stone  and  rest 
yourself,'  fetching  a  shawl  from  the  carriage  as  he  spoke.  ^  You 
will  find  it  a  very  pleasant  seat ;  unless,  indeed,  you  are  afraid 
of  that  black-looking  water,'  seeing  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  it. 

She  smiled  then.  *  Not  with  you  here,'  she  said  as  she  sat 
down.  *  We  will  wait  for  Arthur,  shall  we?  We  have  plenty  of 
time  to  spare,  and  it  will  be  quite  a  pleasant  surprise  to  him  to 
find  us  here.     We  can  all  go  back  together.' 

And  for  some  time  while  they  sat  there  talking  she  watched, 
as  far  as  she  could  see  among  the  trees,  the  road  by  which 
her  cousin  must  come.  Arthur,  however,  did  not  make  his 
appearance.  A  horseman  passed  them,  but  it  was  not  he ;  and 
having  gone  to  meet  him  in  the  full  expectation  of  seeing  her 
cousin,  she  returned  a  good  deal  disappointed  to  her  husband^s 
side. 

'  Who  was  it?'  Percy  asked,  noticing  her  heightened  colour  as 
she  came  back. 

*  Only  Mr  Thorpe.'  She  sat  down  again,  and  produced  her 
sketch-book  and  pencil.     '  I  made  sure  it  was  Arthur.' 

*  Did  you  speak  to  him  ? ' 

*  No,  we  only  bowed.  Isn't  that  a  lovely  peep  there — where 
the  water  turns,  and  the  woods  seem  to  grow  over  it !  I  want 
to  try  and  take  it  before  that  light  goes,  it  is  so  pretty.'  And 
she  set  to  work  forthwith,  though  Percy  told  her  she  was  too 
near,  and  he  did  not  think  she  would  make  anything  of  it. 


THE  POOL  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  187 

*  Never  mind — 1 11  try.  I  always  like  to  see  what  I  can  do, 
when  you  tell  me  I  can't  manage  a  thing.'  And  for  some  time 
she  appeared  intent  upon  her  drawing ;  while  he  watched  her, 
thinking  what  a  pretty  picture  she  herself  would  make,  as  she 
sat  there,  with  the  afternoon  sunlight  playing  round  her  and  the 
green  boughs  waving  over  her  head.     She  raised  her  head  at  last. 

'  Do  you  remember  this  day  last  year  1 '  she  said,  holding  her 
drawing  some  little  distance  from  her,  and  contemplating  her 
performance  with  a  critical  eye. 

^  This  day  last  year  ] — no.  What  happened  then  1  anything 
particular  ? ' 

'  Yes,  something  very  particular,  to  me  at  least — not  to  you ; 
but  still  I  thought  you  might  have  recollected  one  thing  we  did. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  went  out  after  I  hurt  my  foot.  Don't 
you  remember  now?  You  took  me  out  in  the  carriage  with 
Mary,  and  gave  me  my  first  lesson  in  sketching.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  we  went  to  Copelands.  I  remember  how  pleased 
you  were  to  get  over  there  again,  Lisa.' 

*  How  pleased  to  get  out  anywhere  again.  And  that  was  the 
day  you  gave  me  Prince — dear  little  Prince/  looking  at  her  dog, 
who  was  sniffing  daintily  at  a  mouse-hole  near.  ^  I  thought  it 
very  kind  of  you — particularly  kind ;  because  I  had  always  been 
so  exceedingly  rude  to  you.  And  in  the  evening  Mrs  Daly  came 
in.  You  don't  know,  perhaps,  that  it  was  then,  Percy,  I  really 
began  to  like  you — not  a  little  only,  but  very  much.  I  had  be- 
gun, before  that,  to  think  you  not  quite  so  disagreeable  as  I  did 
at  first  j  but  still  I  didn't  care  much  about  you  one  way  or  the 
other.  But  that  day — oh,  I  remember  it  so  well !  I  was  so 
sorry  then  I  had  ever  been  so  silly — so  wicked  as  to  dislike  you 
because' 

*  Because  I  was  so  unfortunately  plain — such  a  disagreeable- 
looking  fellow.' 

'  0  Percy  !  Well,  it  don't  matter  what  I  thought  of  you  then — 
you  don't  mind  it,  do  you,  now  you  know  I  think  so  differently  ? 
But,  oh  dear,  how  strange  it  all  seems  to  me  !  If  anybody  had 
told  me  then  what  would  happen  in  a  few  months,  I  should  never 
have  believed  them !  I  began  to  like  you  very  much  from  that 
day ;  but  it  was  only  as  a  cousin ;  I  never  dreamed  of  your  ever 
being  anything  else.  If  any  one  had  said  then,  that  one  day  you 
were  to  be  my  own  dear  husband,  who  was  to  be  so  good  to  me, 
and  spoil  me,  and  make  me  so  happy — eh^  Percy  ! '  looking  at 


188  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

him  in  her  shy  way,  and  with  a  very  pretty  colour — *  why,  I 
should  have  said  it  was  all  rubbish  !  1  couldn't  have  believed  it, 
could  I  r 

^  JSTot  any  more  than  I  could  have  believed  it,  Lisa.  Even 
now,  do  you  know,  I  have  a  fancy  at  times  that  it  must  be  a 
mistake.  I  can't  imagine  how  you  could  make  up  your  mind 
to  care  for  me,'  looking  again  as  he  spoke  at  the  very  lovely 
girlish  face  at  his  side. 

^  Percy,  what  a  speech  from  a  husband  to  his  wife  !  But  I  see 
you  are  smiling,  and  I  know  why  you  say  it.  You  only  want  to 
hear  me  tell  you  how  very  much  I  do  care  for  you ;  and  I  am 
not  going  to  tell  you  anything  of  the  sort :  I  have  said  it  so 
many,  many  times,  that  I  never  mean  to  say  it  again/  Lisa's 
eyes,  however,  were  very  eloquent ;  there  was  no  need  of  words 
to  tell  what  her  thoughts  were.  '  People  never  say  those  kind 
of  things,  you  know,  when  they  have  been  married  a  long  time, 
as  we  have :  I  feel  quite  an  old  married  woman  now.' 

*  You  do,  do  you  ? ' 

*  Yes,  really.  And  now  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  It  will 
turn  out  better  than  you  thought,  won't  it?  I  shall  have  to 
finish  it  at  home,  though,  for  I  'm  sure  it  is  time  we  were  going 
now ;  look,  how  long  the  shadows  are  getting  !  and  we  have  to 
dine  at  Lassell  Lodge  this  evening ! '  getting  up  as  she  spoke. 
'  I  wonder  what  makes  Arthur  so  late  to-day  :  we  shall  miss  him, 
after  all.' 

^  Yes,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  Come,  dear,  we  have  no  time 
to  lose ; '  and  Prince  having  been  summoned  from  his  investiga- 
tion of  all  the  mouse-holes  in  the  neighbouring  bank,  they  took 
their  seat  in  the  carriage  and  set  off  home  ;  Lisa  leaning  back, 
and  enjoying  to  the  utmost  the  rapid  drive  and  the  fresh  wind 
that  blew  about  them.  They  were  within  two  miles  of  Gains- 
ford,  when  her  attention  was  attracted  by  something  at  a  short 
distance  before  them. 

*  Why,  there  he  is  ! '  she  exclaimed,  ^  and — how  very  odd  ! ' 
'  What  is  odd  1 '  Percy  asked.     '  Who  is  it  r 

*  Why,  Arthur.  And  who  is  that  with  him  ? — he  is  walking, 
leading  his  horse.  And  there 's  a  lady ;  it  looks  like — yes,'  as 
they  got  nearer,  ^  it  is — it 's  Nelly,  I  declare  !  What  can  she  be 
doing  so  far  from  home  1 ' 

They  drove  on,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  overtook  the  pair,  who 
turned  round  upon  hearing  a  carriage  stopping  beside  themj 


THE  POOL  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  189 

Arthur  smiling,  Elinor  looked  disturbed  and  fluttered ;  and  her 
start,  when  her  name  was  called,  made  Lisa  laugh. 

*  Ah,  you  may  well  ask  what  we  are  doing  !  ^  Arthur  said,  in 
answer  to  their  inquiries.  *  But  the  fact  is,  I've  been  playing 
the  part  of  champion  to  this  young  lady — rescuing  her  from  a 
mad  bull,  alias  a  very  quiet  cow,  that  was  looking  at  her  over  a 
hedge.  She  was  in  such  a  state  of  alarm  at  the  creature's  hostile 
proceedings,  that  if  I  had  not  appeared  when  I  did,  we  should 
have  had  a  coroner's  inquest  to-morrow,  and  a  verdict  '^  Died  of 
fright '^  returned.' 

There  was  a  laugh  at  Elinor's  expense;  in  which,  however,  she 
did  not  join. 

*  But  where  were  you  going,  Nelly  ? '  Lisa  asked.  *  It  is  such 
a  long  way  from  the  Lodge.' 

*  She  came  out  for  a  Avalk,'  said  Arthur,  '  and  lost  her  way,  of 
course.  She 's  no  topographist,  and  never  has  an  idea  whether 
she  ought  to  steer  east,  west,  north,  or  south.  And  then  she 
has  a  horror  of  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  dog  or  cow ;  and  if 
she  only  sees  the  tip  of  a  tail,  or  hears  a  bark  half  a  mile  off, 
she 's  off  like  a  shot  to  be  out  of  the  way.  It 's  no  wonder  she 
finds  herself  astnxy  sometimes — eh,  Nelly  ] '  he  said  carelessly. 

Elinor  coloured  a  little,  but  made  no  answer ;  and  Lisa  turned 
to  Arthur,  to  ask  how  it  was  they  had  not  seen  him  before, 
telling  him  of  their  having  waited  for  him  in  the  wood  near  the 
Warren. 

*  I  didn't  come  that  way  this  afternoon ;  I  came  by  the  lower 
road,  and  a  lucky  thing  for  Nelly  I  did,  or  I  don't  know  how 
she  could  have  got  out  of  her  dilemma.  And  now  she 's  tired  to 
death  :  you  had  better  give  her  a  lift  as  far  as  the  Lodge  gate. 
I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  mount  Chestnut,  but  she  was  horrified 
at  the  proposal.' 

So  room  was  made  for  Elinor  in  the  carriage,  and  in  due  time 
she  was  set  down  at  Lassell  Lodge,  and  left  to  make  her  way  up 
to  the  house  with  Arthur,  while  the  other  two  returned  to  the 
cottage  before  coming  up  again  for  the  evening. 

*  What  a  delightful  afternoon  we  have  had  ! '  Lisa  exclaimed, 
as  they  stopped  at  their  own  door  :  *  I  Ve  been  so  happy,  so  very 
happy!' 


190  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY, 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 


THE      FIRST      SHADOW. 


Percy  was  away  longer  than  he  expected — the  fortnight  being 
nearly  three  weeks — and  the  ^  merry  month  of  May '  was  almost 
out  when  he  came  back.  It  was  a  warm  and  really  summer's 
afternoon  when  he  once  more  walked  in  at  his  own  gate,  pleasing 
himself  with  the  idea  of  taking  Lisa  by  surprise ;  for  it  was  an 
hour  or  two  earlier  than  he  had  told  her  he  should  get  in. 

The  house  was  quiet — very  quiet — as  he  let  himself  in  with 
his  latch-key,  and  for  a  moment  the  silence  struck  him  as  some- 
thing almost  ominous.  But  he  smiled  at  himself  immediately 
afterwards  for  his  own  fancifulness.  He  had  never  come  home 
before  unmet,  and  it  was  Lisa's  missing  step  and  voice  which 
made  the  place  seem  so  deserted.  But  she  was  not  far  off,  of 
course;  and  he  walked  on  into  the  drawing-room,  where  he 
made  sure  of  finding  her. 

But  she  was  not  there.  The  room  was  empty ;  though  from 
the  appearance  of  the  books  and  vv^ork  lying  about,  it  w^as 
evident  it  had  been  recently  used.  Very  homelike  it  looked, 
but  it  was  very  still ;  and  the  closed  green  blinds,  keeping  out 
the  glare  of  the  afternoon  sun,  seemed  to  deepen  almost  into 
gloom  the  shaded  quietness  of  the  place.  The  very  birds  were 
half  asleep  in  their  cages,  and  hardly  gave  him  a  chirp  as  he 
passed ;  and  even  the  flowers  looked  pale  and  drooping ;  though 
without  all  was  life  and  sunshine.  He  could  catch  glimpses  of 
light  on  the  blue  waters,  and  hear  the  sound  of  the  waves  upon 
the  shore,  and  the  breeze  among  the  acacia  and  laburnum  trees 
in  the  garden;  and  once  he  paused,  thinking  he  heard  Lisa's 
voice  too  j  but  when  he  listened,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
wdnd  and  the  humming  of  the  bees  in  the  creepers  above  the 
window. 

*  Perhaps  she  is  out,' was  his  disappointed  reflection,  'or  is 
she  in  the  garden?'  And  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
window,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices,  and  thought  he  saw  the 
flutter  of  a  dress  under  a  tree  upon  the  lawn. 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  191 

He  was  not  mistaken  :  it  was  Lisa  herself  who  was  sitting 
there — but  not  Elinor  with  her,  as  he  expected.  It  was  a  man's 
voice  that  met  his  ear  as  he  walked  towards  the  spot,  and  he 
recognised  it  as  that  of  his  cousin  Arthur,  even  before  he  made 
out  his  figure  by  Lisa's  side.  Very  deep  in  conversation  they 
both  were;  he  bending  forward,  making  holes  in  the  ground 
with  his  stick  as  he  talked,  and  she  looking  down  too,  and 
answering  in  low  earnest  tones ;  and  although  her  words  were 
inaudible,  her  voice  gave  Percy  the  idea  that  she  was  in  distress. 
So  intent  were  they  both  on  what  they  were  saying,  that  his 
step  upon  the  grass  was  unheard. 

*  Lisa ! '  and  as  he  spoke  she  started  and  looked  round.  Was 
it  only  fancy  that  made  him  think  that  start  less  that  of 
delighted  surprise  than  of  alarm — that  she  was  more  frightened 
than  pleased  at  his  sudden  appearance  ? 

^Why,  Lisa,  my  darling,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me? 
Are  you  not  going  to  let  me  look  at  you,  my  little  summer-bird  1 
I  did  not  frighten  you,  did  1 1 ' 

'  Not  frighten  me,  exactly.  But  you  startled  me.  I  wasn't 
expecting  you,'  she  murmured. 

*  No,  indeed,'  said  Arthur,  who  had  risen  hastily  with  her ;  *  of 
course  we  were  not.  You  told  her  you  wouldn't  be  home  till 
seven.  I  wonder  you  have  the  conscience  to  come  stalking  down 
upon  her  in  that  style.' 

'  I  am  sorry  I  startled  her  so  much,'  Percy  said,  a  little  gravely. 
*  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased  to  see  me,  dearest,  whether  you 
expected  me  or  not.     You  are  not  sorry,  are  you  1 ' 

*  Sorry  !  O  Percy  ! '  But  whether  it  were  that  his  tone  implied 
reproach,  or  from  some  other  cause,  she  suddenly  burst  into 
tears — a  proceeding  which  caused  him  no  little  consternation — 
while  Arthur  gave  a  long  whistle,  and  thinking  he  was  better 
out  of  the  way,  walked  off  towards  the  house. 

The  sound  of  his  retreating  steps  seemed  to  recal  Lisa  to 
herself^  but  she  had  no  reason  to  give  for  her  distress,  unless  it 
might  be  that  she  thought  she  was  very  tired.  She  had  walked 
a  good  deal  that  morning,  and  it  had  been  rather  hot,  and — she 
was  very  glad  he  had  come  home ;  with  which  wind-up  she  broke 
off  rather  abruptly. 

*  But  what  was  Nelly  about  to  let  you  do  such  foolish  things  V 
he  asked.  *  I  thought  she  was  here  to  take  care  of  you.  Where 
issheT 


192  ATHERSTONE  PRTORY. 

Lisa's  face  fluslied  a  little.  *  I  think  she  is  in  her  own  room 
lying  down ;  she  said  at  luncheon  that  she  had  a  bad  headache.' 

'  Oh,  you  both  did  too  much,  then  ?  Where  did  you  go  to 
tire  yourselves  so  much  ? ' 

*  We  were  only  on  the  sands.  Shall  we  go  in  ?  it 's  very  hot 
here.' 

They  walked  back  to  the  house ;  and  when  they  reached  the 
drawing-room,  she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  Percy  heard  a 
very  long  sigh  as  she  did  so.  It  was  evident  she  had  over- 
fatigued  herself;  and  vexed  that  she  had  done  so,  he  insisted  on 
her  remaining  where  she  was,  and  would  not  even  hear  of  her 
getting  up  for  dinner. 

*  She  has  tired  herself  out/  he  remarked  that  evening  to  Janet, 
who  was  noticing  that  she  looked  very  pale.  '  She  walked  too 
much  this  morning,  she  tells  me.  You  should  not  have  gone  so 
far  with  her,  Nelly,'  he  added,  turning  to  his  sister.  *  I  trusted 
to  you  to  look  after  her  while  I  was  away.' 

'  Elinor  looks  as  tired  herself,'  said  Janet.  *  How  could  you 
be  so  silly,  Nelly '?     Where  did  you  go  to  knock  yourselves  up  ? ' 

Elinor  raised  her  eyes  from  the  work  over  which  she  was 
bending,  and  looked  as  if  she  had  not  heard  what  was  said  to 
her. 

*  I  am  not  tired,'  she  said,  when  Janet  repeated  her  question. 

*  I  haven't  been  out  at  all  to-day,  and  I  didn't  know  Lisa  had.' 

Percy  looked  surprised.  ^  I  thought  I  understood,  Lisa,  that 
you  had  both  been  out  together,'  he  said.  ^  Surely  you  told  me 
so.  You  would  never  have  been  walking  alone  ? '  in  a  strangely 
cold,  hurt  voice. 

*  Walking  in  her  sleep,  perhaps,'  suggested  Arthur,  who  was 
watching  her  varying  colour  with  some  uneasiness.  *  Not  that 
it  would  matter  much  that  I  can  see,  if  she  did  go  for  a  stroll ; 
it  would  only  be  on  the  sands,  and  they  are  quiet  enough  in  the 
morning.  Don't  be  such  a  tyrant,  Percy,  as  to  grudge  her  a 
quiet  walk  if  she  likes  to  take  one.' 

Percy  drew  himself  up,  looking  formidably  tall,  and  very 
proud,  as  he  did  sometimes  when  he  thought  himself  unwarrant- 
ably interfered  with. 

*  I  have  no  wish  to  act  the  part  of  a  tyrant,'  he  said,  coldly, 

*  though  I  have  my  wishes  upon  some  subjects,  and  Lisa  knowg 
what  they  are.  I  am  sorry  she  should  have  thought  proper  to 
disregard  them.' 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  193 

Arthur  gave  a  shrug,  muttering  something  about  no  harm 
being  meant ;  but  Lisa  was  silent,  though  her  colour  came  and 
went,  and  she  looked  very  nervous. 

'  You  surely  didn't  think  of  going  out  alone,  when  you  know 
Percy  does  not  like  it  ? '  remarked  Isabel,  in  a  low  tone.  '  Why, 
Lisa  !  what  could  make  you  do  such  a  thing  ?     Where  did  you 

gor 

Lisa  looked  uneasy. 

*  I  was  on  the  sands ;  I  walked  there  for  some  time.' 

*  Alone  !     O  Lisa  ! ' 

There  was  a  volume  of  reproach  in  the  tone ;  but  no  answer 
was  made.  Only  Lisa's  lip  quivered,  and  she  glanced  nervously 
at  Percy.  Happily  for  her,  there  came  a  diversion  ;  for  Arthur, 
who  was  fidgeting  about  the  room,  contrived,  in  his  passage 
between  two  tables,  to  throw  down  a  stand,  on  which  was  a  bowl 
of  gold  and  silver  fish.  The  crash  of  the  shattered  glass,  and  the 
deluge  of  water  on  the  floor,  startled  everybody. 

'  O  Arthur ! '  and  Lisa  started  from  the  sofa ;  while  Elinor, 
who  had  received  half  the  contents  of  the  bowl  over  her  dress, 
jumped  up  too,  wdth  a  shriek. 

^  Very  sorry  ! '  said  Arthur,  but  not  looking  at  all  so.  On 
the  contrary,  he  appeared  very  much  relieved  at  the  catastrophe, 
and  went  about  picking  up  the  fish  by  their  tails,  with  a 
smile  on  his  face^  which  not  all  his  efforts  to  be  grave  and 
penitent  could  repress.  Lisa  would  have  helped  him,  but  Percy 
stopped  her  peremptorily. 

'  Lie  still,  Lisa,'  he  said  gravely,  putting  her  back  on  the 
sofa.     *  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  trouble  yourself  about  it.' 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  Lisa  lay  still  as  she  was  told,  while 
the  servant  who  was  summoned  cleared  away  the  broken  glass 
and  wiped  up  the  water ;  and  the  fish  having  been  provided 
with  temporary  accommodation,  and  Elinor  having  retired  to 
change  her  dress,  things  w^ere  restored  to  order,  and  every- 
body began  to  talk  again.  Only  Percy  was  absent,  and  imper- 
turbably  grave  ;  and  Lisa  seemed  to  see  no  one  but  him  :  while 
Isabel  was  highly  indignant  at  what  had  passed ;  nor  was  her 
displeasure  lessened  by  Arthur's  ill-timed  interference.  She 
even  began  to  imagine  there  was  some  understanding  between 
him  and  Lisa.  The  supposition  was  confirmed  a  little  later, 
when,  under  the  shelter  of  some  loud  conversation,  she  heard 
him  remark  to  her  in  a  low  voice — 

N 


194  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*A  lucky  downfall  that  for  us,  Scaramouch.  But  what  a 
little  goose  you  are!  What  makes  you  look  so  frightened?' 
And  then  followed  something  which  made  Lisa  shake  her  head. 

'  I  can't,  Arthur ;  indeed  I  can't.     And  you  promised ' she 

was  beginning  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  when,  meeting  Isabel's 
eye,  she  coloured  deeply,  and  became  suddenly  silent.  Arthur, 
too,  observed  he  was  watched,  and  retreating  to  the  piano, 
occupied  himself  there  until  Janet  thought  proper  to  move, 
which  she  did  shortly  afterwards. 

Percy  sat  up  very  late  that  night  writing;  and  when  he 
went  up-stairs,  it  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock.  Suppos- 
ing Lisa  to  be  asleep,  he  was  passing  through  her  room  with 
some  caution,  on  his  way  to  his  own  dressing-room,  when  to 
his  surprise  he  heard  his  name  called.  He  was  startled,  think- 
ing something  was  the  matter. 

*  What  is  it,  Lisa  ?  Are  you  not  well  1 '  and  he  was  at  her 
side  directly ;  all  coldness  of  manner  vanishing  at  once  in  his 
anxiety. 

^  Yes,  I  am  quite  well.'  She  gave  a  long  sigh  as  she  spoke. 
*  I  want  to  say  something  to  you,  Percy.  Put  that  candle 
away,  please.' 

He  did  as  he  was  asked,  setting  it  down  upon  a  table  near, 
but  something  of  his  stiffness  had  returned  when  he  came  back. 

'You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  waiting  for  me  all 
this  time  ? '  he  said,  in  rather  a  constrained  voice. 

*  Yes ;  and  it  has  seemed  so  long.  L  thought  you  were  never 
coming.  But  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  while  you  were  angry 
with  me.'  She  looked  at  him  with  her  wistful  beseeching!  eyes, 
and  he  could  not  resist  their  pleading.  His  arm  was  round 
her  in  a  moment. 

'Lisa,  my  darling,  why  did  you  do  it,  when  I  asked  you 
notr 

It  was  said  very  much  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  some  wilful 
child;  and  her  close,  clinging  embrace  was  after  the  same 
fashion.     But  she  did  not  attempt  any  reply. 

*You  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you?'  she  said;  and  she 
shivered  as  if  the  fear  of  his  displeasure  chilled  her. 

'  No,  dearest,  no ; '  the  idea  of  feeling  anger  or  anything 
else  that  was  harsh  towards  one  so  lovely  and  loving,  seeming 
to  him  then  impossible.  '  No,  dearest,  I  am  not  angry ;  I  was 
a  little  vexed,  and  you  can't  wonder  at  it,  Lisa.     There   are 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  195 

not  many  things  I  keep  you  from.  I  thought  you  would  not 
have  minded  pleasing  me  in  this.' 

There  was  a  choking  sob  from  Lisa,  but  she  kept  it  back, 
only  clinging  still  closer  to  him. 

*  And  you  won't  be  angry  with  me  again  ?  You  are  not 
now  ? '  in  a  broken  voice.  *  0  Percy  !  don't  look  at  me  again 
as  you  did  this  evening,'  she  said  imploringly. 

He  kissed  her  tenderly,  beginning  to  look  upon  himself  as 
having  been  nothing  less  than  tyrannical  and  unjust. 

'  Poor  child,  how  cold  you  are  1 '  he  said.  *  But  you  must 
forget  it,  Lisa.  Don't  think  of  it  any  more.  I  don't  like  to 
see  you  looking  so  pale  and  tired — you  will  make  yourself  ill. 
Lie  down,  my  darling,  and  forget  it.' 

He  laid  her  down  himself,  trying  to  soothe  her  with  all  sorts 
of  endearing  words.  And  if,  as  he  sat  holding  her  hand  in 
his  till  she  fell  asleep,  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  her 
conduct  had  not  been  exactly  what  he  should  have  expected, 
he  would  not  dwell  upon  it.  She  was  wilful  sometimes,  he 
knew  ;  it  was  in  her  nature.  And  then  his  thoughts  went  back 
to  the  Priory — to  the  hundred  and  one  ways  in  which,  when 
he  had  first  known  her,  she  had  tormented  him  by  her  caprice 
and  waywardness.  How  pretty  she  had  looked  in  those  wilful 
moods,  which,  indeed,  had  won  his  heart.  Yes,  he  should  not 
like  to  have  her  different,  even  though  she  might  sometimes 
choose  to  carry  out  her  own  wishes  in  opposition  to  his.  She 
would  not  do  it  without  being  sorry  for  it  afterwards ;  and 
if  she  were  pretty  in  her  waywardness,  she  was  even  more 
so  in  her  penitence,  he  thought,  looking  at  the  pale  sweet 
face  before  him  and  the  long  eyelashes  fringed  with  tears. 
And  he  kissed  the  little  hand  that  had  been  lying  in  his, 
and  went  away  to  forget  there  had  been  anything  between 
theiii,  or  that  he  had  had  cause  to  imagine  he  was  not  satisfied 
with  her. 


196  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ISABEL'S     SUSPICIONS. 

*  Well,  Lisa,  how  are  you  this  morning  ?  *  asked  Janet,  with  a 
smile,  as  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  at  the  cottage  on  the 
following  day. 

Lisa  was  alone,  sitting  on  a  low  stool  near  the  open  window. 
The  sunlight,  which  was  playing  on  tree  and  shrub  without, 
found  its  way  through  overshadowing  boughs  into  the  pleasant 
room  where  she  sat  among  her  birds  and  flowers ;  and  light 
breezes  came  wandering  by,  bringing  with  them  the  murmur  of 
the  far-off  waves,  and  many  scents  and  sounds  of  summer. 
But  she  was  looking  pale  and  harassed  ;  and  the  expression  of 
her  face  struck  at  once  both  Janet  and  Isabel. 

*Is  anything  the  matter]'  the  former  asked  again.  *You 
look  very  woe-begone.' 

Lisa  coloured  a  little.  '  Do  1 1  I  didn't  know  it.  I  was  only 
thinking.     Nelly  is  very  poorly  this  morning.' 

*  Is  she  1   What  is  the  matter  with  her  ? ' 

*Not  much,  I  daresay,'  remarked  Isabel,  drily.  *A  headache, 
or  something  else  equally  alarming.  NeDy  is  always  glad  of  an 
excuse  for  lying  in  bed.' 

*It  isn't  only  a  headache,'  Lisa  said;  *I'm  afraid  she  is 
really  ill.' 

'Poor  Lisa,'  said  Janet.  'She  is  quite  anxious.'  And  a 
laughing  conversation  followed,  on  the  subject  of  some  of 
Elinor's  fancies — a  conversation  in  which  Lisa  took  no  part. 
She  sat  looking  anxious  and  preoccupied. 

'How  very  odd  you  are  this  morning,  Lisa !'  Janet  said  again. 
'  What  is  come  to  you  ?  It  can't  be  only  Nelly.  Oh,  I  know, 
somebody  has  been  scolding  you  about  that  unlucky  walk  of 
yours.     I  hope  he  was  not  very  angry.' 

Lisa  looked  uncomfortable.  'Percy  never  scolds  me,'  she 
said,  quickly. 

'Never!'  said  Janet,  with  a  smile.  'Are  you  sure  he  didn't 
last  night  ?     He  looked  black  enough  to  administer  any  amount 


Isabel's  suspicions.  197 

of  lecturing.     If  Ralph  ever  looked  like  tliat  at  me,  and  for 
such  a  silly  thing  too' 

'  Janet !   Mrs  Darrell !'    Lisa  fired  up  in  a  moment. 

*What  is  the  matter  V  asked  Janet,  in  astonishment. 

*  Only  that  you  are  not  to  speak  of  Percy  in  that  way,  if  you 
please.' 

'Oh  !'  Janet  was  evidently  offended. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,'  Lisa  said,  more  quietly.  ^Only — you 
know  I  must  not — I  can't  hear  it — and ' 

*  Just  as  you  please,'  returned  Janet,  coolly.  *  I  didn't 
mean  anything  so  dreadful;  you  needn't  look  so  hot  and 
angry.' 

There  was  no  answer.  Lisa  looked  more  inclined  to  cry  than 
anything  else  just  then  ;  and  for  a  minute  or  two  there  was  an 
awkward  silence.  Then  Isabel  rising  said  she  would  go  and  see 
her  sister.  She  went  accordingly,  and  found  Elinor  in  bed,  as 
Lisa  had  told  her,  complaining  of  giddiness  and  a  great  deal  of 
pain  in  her  head.  She  was  evidently  far  from  well ;  but  Isabel 
did  not  think  much  of  her  indisposition,  looking  upon  it  as 
merely  a  slight  feverish  attack,  of  which,  as  usual,  she  was 
inclined  to  make  the  most. 

She  was  going  down -stairs,  on  her  way  to  the  drawing-room 
again,  when,  her  boot-lace  happening  to  break,  she  stopped  for 
a  minute  to  fasten  it,  and  while  doing  so,  heard  voices  in  the 
hall  below.  It  was  Arthur  who  was  speaking,  and  although  she 
could  not  hear  what  he  said,  she  was  struck  by  a  change  in  his 
voice,  which  had  something  in  it  so  earnest,  so  unlike  his  usual 
light  carelessness,  that  for  a  moment  she  wondered  whom  he 
could  be  addressing.  What  could  he  want,  and  who  was  with 
him?  The  latter  doubt  was  soon  solved,  for  Lisa  spoke  iu 
answer. 

*  Well,  Arthur,  I  will  promise  then,'  she  said  with  a  sigh,  'I 
won't  ask  it  again — I  will  wait  till' 

The  rest  was  lost ;  for  she  moved  as  she  spoke,  but  there  were 
thanks  from  Arthur  in  return,  and  once  more  Isabel  was  struck 
by  that  change  in  his  tone — that  difference  from  his  ordinary 
easy,  offhand  way  with  his  old  playfellow. 

Lost  in  thought  she  remained  standing  on  the  stairs  until  the 
closing  of  the  house  door  roused  her  from  her  reverie.  Then 
she  finished  fastening  up  her  boot-lace  and  went  down  into  the 
hall.     At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  came  upon  Lisa,  who  was 


198  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

leaning  against  the  banisters,  with  her  head  resting  on  her 
hands.     She  started  when  she  heard  her  cousin's  voice. 

'0  Isabel!'  she  said,  in  some  confusion;  *I  didn't  hear 
you  coming.     Janet  is  not  gone  yet — she  is  waiting  for  you.' 

She  did  not  pause  to  have  any  questions  asked,  but  turned 
quickly  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Janet,  who 
did  not  seem  to  have  been  aware  of  her  absence,  was  sitting 
absorbed  in  a  book  of  engravings.  Some  more  conversation 
followed,  during  which  Isabel  was  unusually  thoughtful  and 
silent,  and  then  she  and  Janet  said  good-bye  and  went  away. 

They  were  all  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table  the  following 
morning,  when  a  note  was  brought  in  and  given  to  Isabel. 

^  From  Lisa,'  she  remarked  as  she  opened  it.  *  What  a  sad 
scrawl  it  is  !     But  she  always  does  write  in  such  a  hurry.' 

There  was  some  excuse  this  time  for  the  ^  sad  scrawl/  for  it 
had  been  penned  in  evident  distress.  Elinor  was  very  ill ;  she 
had  been  taken  so  much  worse  in  the  night  that  they  had  been 
obliged  to  send  for  a  medical  man.  Nothing  was  mentioned, 
however,  of  the  nature  of  her  illness ;  and  Isabel,  when  she  had 
read  the  note,  turned  it  over,  and  looked  at  it  again  in  evident 
vexation. 

*Just  like  Lisa,  to  give  no  particulars!'  she  exclaimed.  *I 
wonder  what  it  is.  Nothing  very  bad,  I  daresay,  but  it  is  very 
provoking. 

^  Very,'  returned  Janet.     *  What  do  you  mean  to  do  V 

*  Go  down  at  once,'  Isabel  answered,  getting  up  as  she  spoke. 
'  That  will  be  the  best  thing.' 

'  And  stay  when  you  are  there,'  Janet  remarked.  '  That  is 
what  Percy  will  want  you  to  do,  you  may  be  sure.  Of  course 
he  won't  wish  his  wife  to  have  all  the  nursing,  so  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  to  stay  and  be  useful  to  her.' 

Isabel  looked  annoyed.  *  If  I  stay,  it  will  be  to  make  myself 
useful  to  Elinor,'  she  said  gravely.  *But  I  shall  see  whether  it 
is  really  necessary.  I  daresay  it  will  not  be.'  She  was  passing 
Arthur  on  her  way  out  of  the  room,  when  he  stopped  her. 

'  Let  me  look  at  that  note,'  he  said^  holding  out  his  hand 
for  it. 

*  You  have  heard  it  all,  there  is  nothing  more  in  it.'  She 
gave  it  him,  however ;  and  while  she  was  still  standing  talking 
to  Janet,  he  read  it  over  several  times,  and  then  sat  for  some 
minutes  in  deep  thought. 


Isabel's  suspicions.  19& 

*  You  will  be  late,  won't  you  1 '  she  said  at  last,  as  slie 
turned  round  and  found  him  still  sitting  there.  '  Look  at  the 
time/ 

He  started  then.  ^Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure— I  had  forgotten.' 
He  got  up.  '  Well,  don't  quarrel  with  Lisa  if  you  make  up 
your  mind  to  stay  there ;  but  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  will 
leave  her  to  herself.  She  will  get  on  twice  as  well  without 
you.' 

The  first  person  Isabel  met  when  she  entered  her  brother's 
house  a  little  later  was  Dr  Mapleston,  the  medical  man  who  was 
attending  her  sister.     He  looked  pleased  to  see  her. 

*  Ah,  Miss  Tennent,  that 's  right ! '  he  exclaimed.  *  I  am  glad 
you  are  here ;  I  hope  you  are  come  to  stay.  I  have  just  been 
telling  Mrs  Tennent  she  ought  to  have  some  one  with  her,  and 
you  are  the  best  person.' 

^  Not  the  best,'  Isabel  answered,  *  for  I  am  not  much  of 
a  nurse ;  but  still  if  I  ought  to  stay — if  you  think  it  neces- 
sary'  

'  Necessary — of  course  it  is.  And  as  for  nursing,  anybody 
can  do  that  if  they  only  give  their  mind  to  it  and  obey  orders. 
You  are  strong  and  can  bear  fatigue.  You  must  take  some  of 
it  off  Mrs  Tennent.  Don't  let  her  knock  herself  up.  I  shall 
look  in  again  by-and-by.' 

He  ran  off  in  a  great  hurry,  and  Isabel  went  up-stairs. 

She  found  her  sister  very  ill ;  and  as  she  stood  by  her  side, 
and  saw  her  face  flushed  with  pain  and  fever,  and  felt  her  hot 
dry  hand  and  rapid  pulse,  there  was  a  pang  of  self-reproach  in 
her  heart  for  having  thought  so  slightingly  of  her  indisposition. 
For  some  minutes  she  stood  watching  her  in  silence,  then  she 
turned  to  Lisa. 

^  What  does  Dr  Mapleston  say  of  her  1  What  does  he  think  it 
is  ? '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

'  I  don't  know  ;  he  didn't   tell  me  ' Lisa  was  beginning, 

when  Elinor  herself  interposed,  having  caught  the  words. 

^  It  is  my  head.  This  pain  is.  dreadful,  and  that  sea  makes 
its  worse.  I  wish  it  would  stop/  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
*  It  drives  me  wild — it  is  so  sad  ! ' 

Anything  but  sad,  Isabel  thought,  was  the  rush  of  the  little 
waves  on  the  shore,  and  anything  but  sad  was  their  sparkle  as 
they  came  dancing  in  on  the  yellow  sands ;  but  Elinor  listened, 
and  then  muttered  again — 


200  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  So  sad  !  Will  tliey  never  stop  ?  What  is  it  tliey  say  1 
Wrong,  wrong ;  do  you  hear  it,  Lisa  1  They  said  it  that  day, 
and  I  hear  them  now.      Listen  ;  quite  plain  it  is/ 

Her  voice  sank,  and  she  threw  her  head  back  among  the 
pillows  and  moaned  wearily ;  while  Lisa,  who  until  then  had 
stood  motionless,  came  forward  and  smoothed  down  the  bed- 
clothes.    Her  face  was  very  pale,  but  she  spoke  quietly. 

*  I  don't  think  she  know^s  what  she  is  saying ;  she  has  been 
talking  in  that  way  all  night.  Lane  says  w^e  must  not  listen  to 
her  j  it  is  no  use  paying  attention  to  what  people  say  when  they 
are  ill.^ 

Dr  Mapleston's  opinion,  when  he  was  questioned  that  after- 
noon, was  not  favourable.  Elinor  had  long  been  in  delicate 
health,  and  from  the  state  of  nervous  excitement  in  which  he 
had  first  found  her,  he  thought  there  had  been  some  strain  lately 
upon  the  mind  which  had  induced  the  attack  of  brain  fever 
from  which  she  was  suffering.  The  remedies  he  ordered  were 
severe;  and  although  he  did  not  say  much,  it  was  plain  that  he 
considered  her  state  critical,  and  Isabel  was  startled  out  of  her 
usual  calm  and  dignified  composure  by  this  intimation  of  her 
sister's  danger.  She  would  gladly  have  done  what  she  could 
to  make  up  for  her  first  neglect,  but  Elinor  did  not  care  to  have 
her  with  her.  Her  dislike  to  having  her  in  her  room  was  so 
apparent  that  Isabel  found  it  would  not  do  to  force  herself  upon 
her,  and  that  she  should  be  obliged  to  leave  to  Lisa  much  of 
that  attendance  which  under  other  circumstances  would  have 
fallen  to  her  share.  Still,  however,  she  could  do  something ; 
there  w^ere  times  when  Lisa  must  have  rest,  and  some  one  besides 
Lane  must  be  there  to  take  her  place.  That  she  must  remain 
at  the  cottage,  therefore,  was  very  clear ;  and  Percy,  to  whom,  as 
soon  as  he  returned  home,  she  intimated  her  intention  of  so  doing, 
assented  at  once  without  remark.  She  was  annoyed,  indeed, 
to  see  how  indifferent  he  appeared  as  to  whether  she  went  or 
stayed,  his  thoughts  being  taken  up  with  Lisa;  and  in  his 
anxiety  that  she  should  not  do  too  much,  he  seemed  to  forget 
every  one  else.  And  very  absurd  it  was,  Isabel  said  to  herself, 
to  be  so  engrossed  with  her.  It  was  not  necessary  ;  and  even  if 
it  had  been,  it  was  quite  apparent  that,  however  much  Lisa 
might  like  such  attention  in  general,  she  did  not  appreciate  it 
now — that  she  would  far  rather  have  been  left  to  herself.  Some 
change  had  taken  place  in  her  lately,  and  although  this  alteration 


201 

was  attributed  by  others  to  anxiety  for  her  cousin,  Isabel  had 
her  doubts  whether  other  causes  might  not  at  least  have  some 
share  in  it ;  and  these  doubts  having  entered  her  mind,  made 
her  quick  to  notice  things  which  at  another  time  w^ould  have 
escaped  her  observation. 

One  evening  some  days  later,  she  was  sitting  alone  in  the  dusk 
in  her  sister's  room.  It  had  been  a  long,  sad  day  for  every  one, 
for  Elinor's  fever  had  run  very  high,  and  during  many  hours 
she  had  been  delirious  and  excited;  but  she  was  quieter  just 
then,  lying  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  except  her  hard  irregular 
breathing,  there  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  in  the  room — 
scarcely  in  the  house.  Percy  was  away  on  some  night  duty  at 
the  barracks,  Lisa  had  gone  to  her  own  room  to  rest,  and  for 
very  long  Isabel  had  sat  alone  and  undisturbed.  Wrapped  in 
her  own  thoughts,  she  had  quite  forgotten  how  late  it  was  getting, 
till  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  gravel  walk  below  roused  her  from 
her  reverie  and  made  her  look  up.  She  found  then  how  dark 
it  was,  too  dark  for  her  at  first  to  make  out  anything ;  but  as 
she  raised  herself  and  strained  her  eyes  to  look,  she  saw  through 
the  dim  duskiness  the  outline  of  a  man's  figure  on  the  stone 
walk  before  the  drawing-room  window.  He  was  stooping  down, 
and  a  moment  afterwards  she  heard  the  sound  of  something 
thrown  against  a  pane  of  glass.  There  was  a  little  silence ;  but 
presently  a  window  was  opened,  and  Lisa*s  voice  met  her  ear. 

^  Is  it  you,  Arthur  1 ' 

*  Yes  ;  can  you  come  down  to  me  ]' 

There  was  some  reply  which  Isabel  did  not  hear ;  it  was  low 
and  hesitating. 

'  Never  mind  that,'  was  the  answer ;  *  Lisa,  for  pity's  sake, 
come.     I  must  speak  to  you.' 

The  window  closed  again,  and  a  moment  afterwards  Isabel 
heard  her  cousin  s  door  open  and  the  rustle  of  her  dress  as  she 
passed  down-stairs.  She  looked  again,  and  saw  her  come  out 
at  the  garden  door  below  ;  she  had  a  shawl  thrown  round  her, 
and  Isabel  saw  Arthur  draw  it  over  her  head  as  he  joined  her, 
and  then  they  paced  the  stone  w^alk  backwards  and  forwards  for 
long  till  she  was  tired  of  looking  at  them. 

She  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  longer,  lost  in  thought,  and  then 
Lane  came  to  tell  her  tea  was  ready,  and  to  take  her  place  while 
she  was  away.  She  went  down,  and  in  the  drawing-room  found 
Lisa  seated  at  the  tea-table.     Arthur  was  not  there,  but  Percy 


202  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

was  standing  beside  her,  cutting  the  leaves  of  some  new  perio- 
dical. 

'  How  wet  your  dress  is,  Lisa ! '  he  said,  as  he  happened  to 
drop  the  paper-knife  he  was  using,  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 
*  What  have  you  been  doing  ? ' 

Lisa  looked  down — there  was  a  wet  border  all  round  the  bot- 
tom of  her  dress ;  and  as  Percy  laid  his  hand  upon  it,  he  turned 
to  her  inquiringly. 

^  You  have  not  been  out  this  evening,  have  you  % ' 
'  A  little.     I  suppose  it  got  wet  then ;  but  it  won't  hurt  me.' 
She  drew  it  away,  and  turned  again  to  the  table ;  but  he  still 
looked  at  her ;  she  was  cold  and  pale. 

*  Where  did  you  go  1     On  the  sands  ] ' 

'  No  ;  only  in  the  garden.     It  was  very  pleasant  there.* 
'  Was  it  1     You  don't  look  as  if  you  had  found  it  so.     I  am 
afraid  you  have  taken  cold.     You  seem  half  frozen.' 
^  Do  I  ?     But  I  am  quite  warm.' 

*  Warm !  My  dear  Lisa  ! '  The  hand  which  he  had  taken  was 
anything  but  warm,  but  she  drew  it  away  impatiently. 

*  0  Percy,  how  you  tease ! '  she  said,  attempting  a  laugh. 
'  Please  sit  down,  and  don't  trouble  yourself  about  me.  I  am 
perfectly  well.' 

He  sat  doAvn.  Something  in  her  tone,  and  still  more  in  her 
manner,  seemed  to  chill  him,  and  he  said  no  more ;  while  his 
sister,  who  had  listened  in  surprised  displeasure  to  what  was  pass- 
ing, sat  silent  also.  Why  did  not  Lisa  mention  Arthur's  name  1 
why  did  she  seem  so  preoccupied  and  dispirited?  And  with 
increasing  suspicion  Isabel  sat  pondering  on  her  cousin's  strange 
silence. 

Very  little  was  said  by  any  one  till  tea  was  over ;  and  then 
Lisa  rose,  and  saying  something  about  Elinor,  left  the  room. 
Percy  looked  after,  her  as  she  went  away. 

'  Poor  little  Lisa  ! '  he  said.  *  She  is  sadly  out  of  spirits  just 
now.  J  am  afraid  she  is  doing  too  much — making  herself  un- 
happy about  Nelly.' 

*  Is  she  % '  Isabel  answered.  '  No ;  I  don't  think  so.  Of 
course  she  is  anxious  about  Nelly — every  one  must  be ;  but  it 
cannot  be  that  only  that  makes  her  so  out  of  spirits.  She  was 
the  same  before ;  something  was  wrong  with  her  the  day  you 
came  home.' 

'  Something  wrong  ! '     He  looked  up  quickly. 


Isabel's  suspicions.  203 

'  Yes ;  something  wrong.  She  was  not  like  herself  then.  You 
must  have  seen  it,  surely.' 

Percy  was  silent :  he  had  seen  it,  and  he  remembered  it  now. 
His  sister  saw  the  shade  which  her  words  brought  upon  his 
face.  But  he  made  no  reply :  he  sat  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  his  book  in  silence,  and  she  said  no  more  j  but  she  watched 
the  long  inquiring  look  which  he  turned  upon  his  little  wife 
the  next  time  she  came  into  the  room,  and  she  knew  that  the 
doubts  then  roused  within  him  were  not  likely  soon  to  slumber 
again. 

^Lisa,  dearest,*  he  said,  when  later  that  evening  they  were 
alone  together,  *  what  is  the  matter  with  you  1  Something  is 
making  you  unhappy ;  what  is  it  ? ' 

He  spoke  gently,  as  he  always  did  to  her;  but  perhaps  he 
startled  her,  for  she  seemed  disturbed  and  confused,  and  at  first 
made  no  answer — she  only  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a  be- 
wildered look. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  me  ? '  she  said  at  last.  '  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean;  what  have  I  done  1 ' 

*  Nothing,  dearest ;  I  did  not  say  you  had  done  anything.  I 
was  only  afraid  something  was  vexing  you.  You  are  not  like 
yourself,  Lisa — you  have  not  been  ever  since  I  came  back. 
Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ? ' 

But  she  was  silent ;  there  was  only  a  movement  as  if  she 
would  have  liked  to  free  herself  from  his  hold,  but.  he  had  his 
arm  round  her. 

*  Why.  Lisa,'  he  said,  a  little  reproachfully,  *  you  don't  want  to 
get  away — you  are  not  afraid  of  me,  surely  1 ' 

*  JSTo.     But — I  don't  like  you  to  be  angry  with  me.' 

*  But,  dearest,  I  am  not  angry.  .  What  should  make  you  fancy 
so  ?  I  only  wanted  to  know  what  was  vexing  you.  I  thought 
you  would  be  glad  to  teil  me — I  did  not  know  you  wished  to 
keep  anything  from  me.'  * 

'  I  don't,'  she  said,  and  there  was  something  very  sad  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice.     *  I  wish — ohj  I  wish ' 

*  You  wish  what  It '  he  asked  tenderly.     *  What  is  it '? ' 

But  she  had  drawn  back  again,  and  though  her  lip  quivered, 
she  said  nothing.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  looking  at  her  in 
disappointed  silence,  watching  her  varying  colour  and  the  signs 
of  agitation  in  her  face.  But  he  saw  she  had  no  intention  of 
giving  him  her  confidence. 


204  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  May  1  goV  she  said  at  length,  in  a  weary  tone.  '  I  am  very 
tired/    And  he  roused  himself  then. 

^  Yes,  dearest.     I  hoped But  never  mind  ;  if  you  would 

rather  not,  I  won't  ask  again.  Good-night ;  and  don't  stay  in 
Nelly's  room,  as  you  are  so  tired.' 

He  let  her  go,  and  she  went  away  without  another  word.  He 
had  hoped  even  then  that  she  would  say  something,  but  he  was 
mistaken.  She  went  away  slowly,  hesitatingly,  but  without 
looking  back.  He  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  room — his  Lisa, 
his  little  Lisa  who  was  so  dear  to  him ;  only  she  seemed  another 
then  ;  and  when  the  door  had  closed  upon  her,  when  that  little 
white  figure  was  really  gone,  he  turned  away  with  a  sigh,  for  a  sha- 
dow seemed  to  have  fallen  on  the  room. 


CHAPTEK  XXX. 

'  SEE,  WHAT  A  READY  TONGUE  SUSPICION  HATH.* 

After  some  days'  anxious  nursing,  Elinor  s  illness  took  a  turn 
for  the  better ;  and  at  the  end  of  another  week,  Isabel,  released 
from  her  attendance  on  her  sister,  returned  to  Lassell  Lodge. 

*  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  back  again ;  it  has  been  excessively 
dull  without  you  ! '  was  Janet's  exclamation  when,  on  the  morn- 
ing after  her  return,  they  were  once  more  sitting  together 
at  the  breakfast-table.  *  We  shall  have  Nelly  back,  too, 
soon;  and  that  will  be  pleasanter  still.  Poor  girl,  she  looks 
dreadfully  ill !  The  change  will  do  her  good,  when  she  can  ba 
removed.' 

*  Yes,  so  it  will ;  she  is  not  strong  enough  for  it  yet,  but  I 
daresay  she  will  be  next  week.  She  is  very  low  and  out  of 
spirits,  and  I  am  afraid  staying  there  won't  help  to  make  her 
anything  else,'  added  Isabel,  thoughtfully. 

^  Lisa  is  very  kind  to  her.'  remarked  Janet,  not  understanding 
the  drift  of  this  speech.     *  If  she  were  her  own  sister  she  could 


^  SEBj  WIUT  A  KEADY  TONGUE  SUSPICION  HATPI.'     205 

not  do  more  for  her.     She  makes  a  better  nurse  than  you  do, 
Isabel,  I  must  say/ 

*  I  daresay  she  does.  Humouring  goes  a  great  way  in  nursing, 
and  that  is  a  thing  I  have  no  patience  for.  I  don't  think  Lisa 
has  in  general ;  but  in  this  case  of  course  it  is  necessary.' 

*Ah,  yes,  poor  Nelly  was  fractious^  no  doubt.  Whtn  she 
didn^t  know  what  she  was  saying  or  doing,  she  was  not  likely  to 
be  reasonable.     It  was  the  best  way  not  to  contradict  her.' 

*  I  didn't  mean  when  she  was  light-headed,'  Isabel  said.  *  It 
was  only  natural  then;  but  now  it  is  absurd.  Of  course,  though, 
Lisa  finds  it  for  her  interest  to  do  so.' 

A  speech  which  her  companion,  comprehending  as  little  as  the 
former  one,  did  not  remark  upon,  and  for  some  minutes  there 
was  a  silence.  It  was  broken  by  Janet,  who  looked  up  with  a 
smile. 

*  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Isabel.  What  are  you  so  grave 
about  ?  Are  you  wishing  yourself  back  at  the  cottage — thinking 
you  have  left  Nelly  too  soon,  or  what  is  it  ] ' 

*  Not  at  all ;  Nelly  does  better  without  me.  I  am  only  in  the 
way,'  she  added  with  some  bitterness.  *  They  don't  want  me — 
not  even  Percy.  He  thinks — and  yet  how  can  I  help  it  when  I 
see  what  she  is  1 '  she  paused  suddenly. 

*  When  you  see  what  who  is  ? '  Janet  asked.  '  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Isabel  ?  You  are  not  like  yourself.  Is  any- 
thing wrong  ? ' 

Isabel  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  there  was  something 
imusually  sympathising  in  her  companion's  manner,  and  after  a 
little  silence  she  said,  hastily — 

*  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  Janet,'  she  said — ^  what  is  making 
me  so  wretched.  It  is  Percy.  No,  not  himself,'  as  her  com- 
panion looked  at  her  with  surprise,  'but  thinking  of  him — 
fearing  for  him.  For  do  you  know  what  she  is  doing- — how 
she  is  deceiving  him,  and  that  she  will  make  his  whole  life 
miserable  V 

*  Who  will  1  Lisa !  Goodness,  Isabel,  what  do  you  mean  1 
What  has  she  done  V 

Isabel  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  and  when  she  spoke  again, 
the  vehemence  of  her  tones  had  somewhat  softened,  though  they 
were  still  bitter. 

'  Ah,  you  are  surprised  ! '  she  said.  *  I  forgot — you  don't 
know  everything — you  don't  know  all  I  do.     But  you  must 


206  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

have  seen  sometliing — surely  you  must/  She  paused  again, 
but  once  more  urged  on  by  sympathy  and  Janet's  now  excited 
cariosity,  she  spoke  more  plainly. 

She  told  how  her  suspicions  that  something  was  not  right 
with  Lisa  had  been  first  roused  by  what  she  had  noticed  on  the 
night  of  Percyfs  return  from  Hoole,  and  afterwards  by  what  she 
had  overheard  the  following  day  on  the  cottage  stairs ;  and  then 
proceeded  to  relate  more  fully  many  little  things  she  had 
observed  with  respect  to  Lisa's  conduct,  both  as  regarded 
Arthur  and  her  husband.  She  was  excited,  and  her  story  lost 
nothing  in  the  telling.  Janet — who,  in  spite  of  the  information 
coming  from  one  who  was  so  particular  in  her  statements, 
listened  for  some  time  in  incredulity — opened  her  eyes  at  last  in 
astonishment,  and  began  by  degrees  to  admit  that  things  looked 
very  strange,  though  she  seemed  shocked  at  the  idea  sug- 
gested. 

*  You  can't  really  believe  it,  Isabel !  It  is  impossible.  Arthur; 
who  would  have  thought  it  1     You  must  be  mistaken.' 

*  So  I  thought  once,  but  I  don't  now.  He  never  thinks  of 
anything  but  amusing  himself ;  and  she — she  is  light,  and  has 
drawn  him  on  ;  that  is  how  it  is.  You  know  how  he  admires 
her.     He  has  never  made  any  secret  of  it.' 

*  No,  I  know  that,'  Janet  said.  *  But  he  always  talks  such 
nonsense  that  I  never  pay  attention  to  what  he  says.  Who 
could  have  believed,  though,  Lisa  would  be  so  light !  And  how 
she  used  to  lire  up,  and  make  a  show  of  being  virtuously  indig- 
nant, if  any  one  said  anything  against  Percy  !  What  hypocrisy  ! 
Well,  thank  Heaven,  I  never  set  up  to  be  a  pattern  wife,  or 
pretended  to  be  better  than  my  neighbours.  Ealph  and  I  make 
no  fuss  about  caring  for  each  other ;  but  we  get  on  very  well 
together,  and  he  has  never  had  cause  yet  to  think  he  can't  trust 
me ;  and  never  will  have.  But  really — Lisa — what  a  thing  it  is  ! 
Who  would  have  expected  it  from  her  ? ' 

And  then  a  discussion  followed  in  which  all  Lisa's  faults  and 
shortcomings — her  defects  of  temper,  her  vanity,  frivolity,  and 
flightiness — every  failing,  whether  real  or  fancied,  was  brought 
forward ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that,  when  summed  up,  they 
presented  a  formidable  array  against  her.  Poor  Lisa  was  not 
perfect ;  and  her  cousin  and  Janet,  indignant  as  they  were,  were 
not  likely  to  make  the  most  of  the  better  side  of  her  character. 
They  did  not  spare  her  3  and  the  conversation  was  only  brought 


^SEE,  WHAT  A  HEADY  TONGUE  SUSPICION  HATH.'     207 


to  a  close  by  Janet's  remembering  that  they  were  engaged  to 
spend  the  day  with  some  friends. 

The  Lawrences  were  a  large  family,  and  old  friends  of  the 
Darrells ;  and  there  was  one  of  them  who,  if  Janet  were  to  be 
believed,  was  never  sorry  to  meet  Isabel  at  his  father's  house. 
He  happened  to  be  at  home  on  this  particular  day,  and  perhaps 
it  was  this  circumstance  which  prevented  her  dwelling  as  much 
as  she  might  otherwise  have  done  on  the  thoughts  which  had 
been  so  painfully  occupying  her.  Between  sketching,  walking, 
and  conversation,  the  hours  slipped  away ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
a  cheerful  family  party  in  the  evening,  she  forgot  another  home 
over  which  a  gloom  was  fast  gathering. 

She  rose  to  a  remembrance  of  her  troubles,  however,  on  the 
following  morning;  and  even  had  she  been  inclined  to  forget 
them,  Janet's  first  words  when  she  met  her  would  have  recalled 
them  to  her  mind.  Arthur  was  not  at  breakfast,  having  gone  to 
the  Warren  before  they  came  down. 

'  Isabel,'  she  began,  directly  they  were  seated,  '  1  must  tell 
you  something  I  heard  yesterday.  It  is  about  Lisa — about  that 
walk  of  hers  on  the  sands  the  day  Percy  came  home.  Do  you 
know  that  she  was  not  alone  then,  as  she  let  us  think — that 
Arthur  was  with  her  1  They  say,  too,  that  he  was  at  the  cottage 
every  day  while  Percy  was  away.'  Janet  lowered  her  voice, 
and  looked  round  as  she  spoke,  as  if  afraid  of  being  over- 
heard. 

*  They  say  !  who  say  ?  You  don't  mean  you  told  any  one  what 
we  were  talking  of  yesterday?' 

^  Only  mamma — oh,  it 's  quite  safe  with  her  ! '  returned  Janet, 
a  little  disconcerted  as  she  observed  the  look  of  annoyance  that 
showed  itself  in  Isabel's  face.  *  She  came  in  to  call  while  you 
were  all  out ;  and  we  happened  to  say  something  about  Lisa,  so  I 
just  told  her  what  you  had  noticed.  She  won't  repeat  it,  you 
may  be  quite  sure.' 

Isabel,  however,  was  by  no  means  sure  of  this,  and  her 
countenance  betrayed  the  vexalion  she  felt  at  Janet's  indis- 
cretion. 

'  And  Mrs  Lawrence  was  with  you  ?  Who  told  you  that  about 
Lisa?'  she  asked  after  a  pause. 

'  Well,  to  say  the  truth,'  Janet  began  with  some  hesitation ;  ■ 
*  it  was  Cunninghame  who  told  us.' 

VYour  brother !     Mr  Thorpe  1     O  Janet !' 


208  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  Nonsense,  Isabel,  don't  be  cross !  I  didn't  know,  when  I 
was  talking  to  mamma^  that  he  was  in  the  room.  Really 
I  'm  very  sorry ;  you  needn't  look  as  if  you  were  so  angry  with 
nie/ 

*  And  he  heard  it  all,  of  course?'  Isabel  went  on,  with 
difficulty  restraining  her  vexation.  *  What  was  it  he  said 
about  Lisa?' 

'  Only  that  he  had  seen  her  and  Arthur  on  the  sands  that 
day;  they  were  walking  there  for  ever  so  long;  and  that  he  had  met 
them  together,  too,  some  other  time.  And  he  said  that  he  and 
the  Dicksons  had  seen  him  going  into  the  cottage  every  day  that 
fortnight  Percy  was  out.  You  see  he  had  noticed  all  this  himself,' 
added  Janet,  more  intent  now  upon  exculpating  herself  than 
giving  her  news,  *  so  that  it  don't  much  matter  his  knowing  a 
little  more  from  us.  I  can't  see  why  you  care  so  very  mucli 
about  his  having  heard  it.  He  is  not  at  all  likely  to  talk  of  it ; 
no  more  is  mamma.  And  Mrs  Lawrence  is  too  good-natured  to 
say  a  word  against  any  one.' 

*  Perhaps  so ;  but  I  had  much  rather  she  hadn't  the  oppor- 
tunity. I  can't  imagine,  Janet,  how  you  came  to  think  of  speak- 
ing of  it.  Only  fancy  if  it  should  get  to  be  the  talk  of  the  place. 
I  don't  know  what  Percy  would  do.  He  would  never  forgive 
us ! ' 

She  looked  so  uneasy,  that  Janet  could  not  help  feeling  so 
too  ;  though  she  did  not  care  to  show  it. 

*  Oh,  it 's  sure  to  be  all  right,'  she  said.  I  'm  sorry  I  men- 
tioned it  to  anybody,  as  you  didn't  wish  it ;  but  nobody  will 
talk  of  it  again.  We  shall  see  Mrs  Lawrence  this  evening,  and 
I  '11  tell  her  you  don't  wish  anything  said  about  it ;  and  if 
you  like,  I  '11  go  down  to  mamma  this  morning,  and  tell  her  the 
same.     That  will  make  it  all  right.' 

That  evening  Isabel  and  Janet  were  at  a  large  party,  and  the 
former,  seated  near  the  piano,  was  ostensibly  listening  to  the 
singing  going  on  there,  but  in  reality  engrossed  with  her  own 
thoughts,  when  she  heard  some  ladies  mention  Lisa's  name. 

*Yes,  Mrs  Percy  Tennent;  haven't  you  heard  it?  Why, 
everybody  is  full  of  it ;  I  've  heard  it  in  a  dozen  places  to-day, 
if  I've  heard  it  in  one.  And  I  know  it  must  be  true,  for 
it  was  Mrs  Jarvis  who  told  me,  and  she  heard  it  from  Mrs 
Thorpe  ;  so  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it.' 

*  And  Major  Tennent  knows  nothing  of  it  ? ' 


'see,  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath.'    209 

*Kot  a  word  ;  but  then  lie  lias  been  from  home  lately.  That 
was  how  it  happened — young  Darrell  was  at  the  house  every 
day  while  he  was  away  ;  and  they  were  going  out  together,  and 
nobody  knows  what.  They  are  cousins,  and  I  am  told  they 
used  to  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other  before  she  was  married. 
There  might  have  been  an  attachment  then  for  anything  one 
knows.  Mr  Thorpe  seemed  to  intimate  as  much  one  day.  She 
was  a  great  flirt,  he  said ;  and  I  can  quite  credit  it,  for  she  is 
very  pretty.  It  is  a  pity  her  husband  has  not  looked  after  her 
better ;  and  a  pity  too  he  should  not  know  what  they  are  doing. 
He  must  hear  it  soon  though,  one  would  think ;  for  Mrs  Burns 
says  they  are  talking  of  it  at  the  barracks,  and  if  it  has  got  there, 
somebody  is  sure  to  be  kind  enough  to  teli  him.' 

*  Of  course ;  those  kind  of  things  always  get  talked  about.  I 
am  very  sorry  for  him,  very  sorry  indeed ;  but  I  am  glad  I  have 
never  called  upon  her.  I  have  always  been  intending  to  do  so, 
but  we  live  at  such  a  distance  I  find  it  difficult  to  make  time ; 
and  though  Ada  has  teased  me  to  go,  I  have  been  obliged  to  put 
it  off.  Ada  raves  about  her — her  beauty,  and  so  on,  and  has 
been  wild  to  see  more  of  her.  She  has  met  her  sometimes  at  the 
Deanes*,  and  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  her ;  they  are  nearly  of 
an  age.  I  am  thankful,  however,  that  the  acquaintance  has  not 
gone  any  further.  Of  course  I  should  never  think  of  allowing 
my  daughter  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.' 

The  last  speaker  was  a  Mrs  Thetford,  an  acquaintance  of  the 
Darrells,  and  Miss  Ada,  the  daughter  in  question,  was  sitting 
near. 

*Not  have  anything  to  do  with  whom,  mammal'  she  ex- 
claimed. '  Not  with  Mrs  Percy  Tennent  1  Oli,  you  don't  mean 
it !  I  like  her  so  much,  she  is  so  very  pretty  and  so  good  !  I 
like  her  a  great  deal  better  than  anybody  about  here,  and  I  don't 
believe  what  they  say  against  her.  I'm  quite  sure  she  would 
not  do  anything  wrong.' 

*  My  dear,  you  know  nothing  about  it,'  was  the  answer.  I 
am  the  proper  person  to  choose  your  acquaintance;  and  you 
must  remember,  if  you  please,  that  for  the  future  I  wish  you 
to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her.' 

*  O  mamma  ! ' 

*  Don't  be  foolish,  Ada !  Do  you  think  I  wish  you  to  make 
friends  with  anybody,  whatever  their  character  may  be^' 

*  But  she  will  think  it  so  unkind  of  me  1     And  I  don't  believe 

O 


210  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

a  word  of  this;  it's  a  mistake  from  beginning  to  end.  Some 
horrid  person  who  knows  nothing  in  the  world  about  her  has 
said  it,  and  now  everybody  thinks  it 's  true;  and  I  am  sure  it  is 
not.     It  is  all  some  dreadful  slander.' 

*  Well,  my  dear,  I  can't  help  what  you  choose  to  think  of  it. 
All  I  know  is,  that  I  can  never  let  you  make  acquaintance  with 
anybody  who  is  talked  of  as  Mrs  Percy  Tennent  is.  And  you 
may  be  sure  that  however  the  report  has  originated,  there  is  some 
truth  in  it;  there  always  is  in  such  cases.' 

*  Poor  Isabel !  She  had  listened  so  far,  but  here  she  could 
listen  no  more.  Had  things  really  gone  so  far?  Was  it  true 
that  what  a  day  or  two  before  had  been  mere  vague  suspicion 
confined  to  herself  alone,  was  now  the  talk  of  the  placed  that 
Lisa's  name  was  bandied  about,  and  become  the  subject  of  un- 
sparing remark  and  censure  ?  She  was  horrified  when  she  thought 
of  it ;  and  most  bitterly  did  she  repent  having  breathed  a  word 
of  her  suspicions  to  any  one.  That  mention  of  the  barracks  told 
her  at  once  to  whose  agency  part  of  the  report  might  be  traced. 
Mr  Thorpe's  acquaintance  among  the  ofl&cers  was  very  numerous, 
and  she  was  aware  that  a  great  part  of  his  time  was  spent  with 
them.  She  had  no  doubt,  therefore,  that  anything  in  circulation 
there,  was  owing  to  him ;  and  her  indignation  against  him  was 
extreme.  But  she  was  too  much  vexed  with  herself,  too  well 
aware  that  the  chief  blame  of  the  scandal  must  attach  to  her,  to 
feel  as  angry  with  others  as  she  thought  at  first  she  had  a  right 
to  be.  What  to  do  now — how  to  avert  as  much  as  possible  the 
consequences  of  her  indiscretion, — was  her  chief  thought.  To 
speak  to  her  brother  seemed  the  only  way.  He  was  the  proper 
person  to  act  in  such  an  affair ;  and  he  would  at  once  put  an  end 
to  Arthur's  visits  before  things  went  farther,  or  people  had  time 
to  talk  any  more.  She  resolved  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  confide  to  him  her  misgivings.  And  with  this  determina- 
tion she  tried  to  forget  her  uneasiness,  though  with  but  little 
success;  and  her  displeasure  with  her  cousin,  whose  want  of 
prudence  had  been  the  means  of  placing  her  in  such  an  unpleas- 
ant position,  was  not  slight. 

*  For  it  is  all  your  fault,  Janet,'  she  said,  later  that  evening 
when  they  were  alone  again.  ^  If  you  had  not  mentioned  it  in 
that  foolish  way,  not  a  creature  would  have  known  it  but  our- 
selves. I  must  say  it  seems  very  strange  you  should  have 
thought  of  talking  of  what  was  told  you  in  confidence.     You 


^  SEE,  WHAT  A  READY  TONGUE  SUSPICION  HATIl/     211 


miglit  have  been  sure  I  should  not  wish  such  a  thing  to  get 
talked  about.' 

Janet  looked  very  angry.  ^  Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now/  she 
said  sharply.  *  What  is  the  use  of  saying  so  much  about  it  ? 
And  after  all,  if  we  had  not  spoken,  somebody  else  would  before 
long.  The  Dicksons,  you  see,  had  noticed  things  already  as  well 
as  you.     Cunninghame  said  so  yesterday.' 

*  Mr  Thorpe  seems  anxious  to  make  the  worst  of  it  in  every 
way,'  was  the  rejoinder,  in  a  bitter  tone.  *  It  won't  be  his  fault 
if  everybody  in  the  town  does  not  hear  of  it.  I  would  rather,' 
she  added  passionately — ^  I  would  rather  anybody  in  the  whole 
world  had  heard  it  than  him.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  what 
Percy  will  say  and  do  if  he  comes  to  hear  that  this  gossip  is  owing 
to  me.  He  will  be  so  very  angry ;  he  will  never,  never  forgive 
me.' 

*  Perhaps  he  will  never  know  it,'  returned  Janet.  '  We  may 
find  some  way  of  stopping  it  before  it  gets  to  him.' 

'  Some  of  it  must  get  to  him,'  Isabel  said  decidedly.  '  I  shall 
tell  him  of  it,  that  he  may  put  a  stop  to  Arthur's  going  there.  It 
is  the  only  way,'  she  added,  seeing  Janet  was  about  to  remon- 
strate. *  I  have  thought  it  over,  and  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
speak  to  him.  I  shall  ask  him  to  come  up  here  to-morrow,  and 
then  I  shall  be  sure  of  seeing  him  alone.' 

She  sat  down  at  the  writing-table,  and  wrote  off  a  short  note, 
while  Janet  stood  watching  her  uneasily. 

*  He  won't  like  it,'  she  remarked  after  a  pause ;  ^  I  am  sure 
you  have  not  an  idea  what  you  are  doing.  Much  better  leave 
things  alone,  and  let  them  take  their  chance.  What  is  the  good 
of  getting  mixed  up  in  such  a  disagreeable  business  1 ' 

*  What !  and  let  him  be  miserable  all  his  life,  because  I  shall 
hear  a  few  angry  words'?  No — I  am  not  such  a  coward  as  that.' 
She  finished  her  note,  sealed  and  directed  it.  *  Will  you  let  it 
be  sent  to  the  cottage  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  ? ' 

*  Yes,  certainly,  if  you  really  wish  it ; '  and  then  looking  at 
her  watch,  Janet  yawned,  and  said,  that  as  it  was  long  past  twelve, 
she  thought  the  best  thing  they  could  do  would  be  to  go  to  bed. 


213  ATHEESTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SHRUBBERY. 

Janet  had  truly  said  that  Isabel  did  not  know  what  she  was 
doing,  when  she  took  upon  herself  to  awaken  in  Percy's  mind 
the  distrust  which  filled  her  own.  Much  as  she  dreaded  the 
interview  for  which  she  had  prepared  herself,  she  had  by  no 
means  realised  what  it  was  to  cost  both  herself  and  him.  It 
was  not  until  on  the  following  day  she  actually  met  her  brother, 
that  the  difficulty  of  what  she  was  about  to  do  presented 
itself  to  her.  They  strolled  for  some  time  in  the  shrubbery 
where  they  met,  talking  of  Elinor  and  other  things,  without  her 
saying  a  word  of  what  she  had  summoned  him  to  hear.  On 
reaching  a  gate,  however,  which  led  out  of  the  grounds,  he  made 
a  pause. 

'  I  can't  go  back,'  he  said,  *  I  have  no  time  ;  Lisa  will  be 
waiting  for  me.  You  wished  to  see  me  about  something ;  what 
was  it  ? ' 

Isabel  was  silent  for  a  moment;  the  colour  rushed  to  her  face, 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat  nervously. 

*  It  was  about  Lisa,'  she  said,  with  some  hesitation.  *  Did  you 
ever  say  anything  to  her  about  having  been  out  alone  that  day 
you  came  back  from  Hoole  ? '  she  said  at  length,  thinking  this  a 
good  commencement. 

Percy  looked  surprised.  *  Yes,  oh  yes,  we  made  it  all  right,' 
was  his  hasty  answer. 

*  Oh  ! '  Isabel  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  *  she  told  you  how  it 
was  then  1 ' 

*  How  it  was  !  No,  it  was  a  fancy  of  hers,  I  suppose.  She 
was  very  sorry ;  I  could  not  be  angry  with  her,  poor  child.' 

Isabel's  look  was  one  of  pitying  astonishment.  *  You  really 
passed  it  over  without  explanation  ? ' 

He  appeared  annoyed.  *  Nonsense,  Isabel !  What  should  I 
want  explanations  for  ?     Do  you  think  I  can't  trust  Lisa  ] ' 

*  I  think  you  trust  her  so  fully,  Percy,  that  it  is  a  great  pity 
she  is  not  more  open  with  you,'  was  the  very  grave  answer.     *  I 


THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SHRUBBERY.  213 

think  she  miglit  have  told  you  that  she  was  not  alone  then,  as  you 
thought — that  Arthur  was  with  her.  Mr  Thorpe  met  them 
together/ 

*  Thorpe  !  Arthur  with  her !  But  why  on  earth  didn't  she 
say  so  thenf 

*  I  don't  know — you  must  ask  her  that.  You  had  better  ask 
her,  too,  why  Arthur  was  at  the  cottage  every  day  while  you  were 
away.  Perhaps  she  can  give  some  good  reason  for  it ;  but  at 
present  it  certainly  seems  strange.' 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  her  tone  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  and 
her  brother's  dark  cheek  flushed. 

*  Isabel,  what  do  you  mean  to  insinuate  ? '  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  hoarse  with  suppressed  j^assion ;  and  he  turned  and  con- 
fronted her  with  a  look  that  would  have  made  most  people  quail. 
But  she  stood  her  ground. 

*  I  knew  you  would  be  angry  with  me/  she  said  sadly.  '  But 
I  could  not  bear  you  to  be  deceived.' 

*  Deceived  !  Who  told  you  I  was  deceived  ?  Take  care  what 
you  are  saying — you  may  go  too  far,'  he  exclaimed,  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  her,  his  face  growing  darker  still,  and 
the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelling  almost  to  bursting,  in  the 
storm  of  anger  which  he  kept  only  half  controlled.  And  she 
stood  leaning  against  the  shrubbery  gate,  her  arms  folded,  look- 
ing at  him  not  in  fear,  but  with  eyes  of  pity. 

*  What  can  have  put  such  thoughts  into  your  head?'  he  said 
at  last,  pausing  in  his  walk,  and  speaking  with  forced  calmness ; 
*  you  must  know  there  is  no  truth  in  them.  Lisa  is  good  and 
pure — pure  as  an  angel.  Why  should  I  not  trust  her  ?  Why 
should  you  try  to  make  me  doubt  her  ?  It  is  cruel — cruel  both 
to  her  and  to  me.  Isabel,  I  never  thought  you  would  have  plea- 
sure in  making  me  wretched.' 

Isabel's  lip  quivered,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

'  JSTor  can  you  think  it  now,  Percy ;  you  know  it  is  not  so ; 
that  it  is  in  the  hope  of  saving  ypu  from  wretchedness  that  I  am 
speaking  at  all.  And  as  for  the  thoughts  of  which  you  accuse 
me,  they  must  be  your  own  ;  for  I  have  said  nothing  of  mine.' 

*  You  always  thought  hardly  of  her,'  he  interrupted  in  great 
bitterness.  *  You  were  always  hard  upon  my  little  Lisa ;  she 
was  never  good  enough  for  you,  and  now  you  are  trying  to 
set  me  against  her ;  but  you  can't  do  it.  I  '11  trust  her  through 
anything — through  anything  and  everything.' 


214  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

'  You  mistake  me  altogether/  Isabel  said,  endeavouring  to 
speak  calmly ;  *  don't  let  us  begin  old  discussions  again,  and  rake 
up  old  grievances.  I  have  no  wish  to  go  back  to  the  past, 
nor  is  it  of  much  consequence  whether  what  I  thought  of  Lisa 
were  right  or  wrong.     All  I  want  is  to  prevent  your  being  any 

longer — I  mean ' she  hesitated — *  however  much  you  may 

trust  her,  you  needn't  allow  Arthur's  folly  and  thoughtless- 
ness to ' 

Percy  set  his  teeth  together,  and  it  was  the  look  on  his  face 
at  this  fresh  mention  of  his  cousin's  name  that  made  Isabel  pause 
so  suddenly.     For  the  first  time  she  felt  something  like  fear. 

'  Where  is  h.eV  he  asked  in  a  stifled  voice ;  '  is  he  come  in 

yetr 

'  No,'  and  she  was  quite  relieved  to  be  able  to  say  so.  *  He 
will  not  be  at  home  at  all  to-day — not  for  several  days,  I  think. 
His  friend  Harry  Conyers  has  had  an  accident,  and  telegraphed 
for  him  to  go  to  him ;  he  went  off  all  in  a  hurry.' 

Percy  took  another  turn,  the  hard  look  upon  his  face  growing 
still  harder. 

*  Where  is  Conyers  now  ? '  he  asked  at  length,  stopping  again 
in  front  of  her. 

*  I  don't  know — he  is  in  town  somewhere — in  lodgings,  isn't 
he  1  Arthur  gave  no  address;  it  would  not  have  been  like  him 
if  he  had.' 

She  did  not  say  so,  but  the  feeling  uppermost  in  her  mind  was 
one  of  intense  thankfulness  for  this  oversight  of  her  cousin's. 
The  dread  lest  he  and  her  brother  should  meet  before  the  anger 
of  the  one  had  had  time  to  cool,  would  otherwise  have  been 
overpowering.  Percy's  next  words,  however,  were  not  very 
reassuring. 

'  It 's  not  of  much  consequence,'  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth.  *  I  can  wait.  And  yet,  Lisa  !  No,  I  can't,  I  won't  be- 
lieve it !  It  is  vile  scandal,  all  of  it.  Who  has  dared  to  talk  of 
her  in  that  way  ?  Some  of  your  friends,  I  suppose,'  with  a  fierce 
angry  glance  at  her,  '  the  Thorpes  of  course.  Thorpe  met  them 
together,  you  say — not  much  harm  in  that  either,'  ironically, 
^  but  it  makes  a  good  story,  and  you  can  believe  it,'  with  increas- 
ing sarcasm.  *  He  had  better  take  care,  though,  what  he  says  of 
her — of  my  wife,'  he  added  fiercely. 

Isabel  looked  rather  pale.  She  could  not  tell  him  Lisa  was 
the  talk  of  the  place,  and  that  it  was  thanks  to  her,  his  sister, 


THE  MEETING  m  THE  SHRUBBERY.        215 

that  she  was  so.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  trying  to  calm 
herself,  and  then  she  said — 

^  You  don't  think  I  should  listen  to  any  stories  Mr  Thorpe 
liked  to  tell,  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  confirm  them ;  nor  do 
I  mean  to  say  there  is  any  real  harm  in  anything  Lisa  has  done. 
But  she  is  young  and  thoughtless,  and' 

^  And  light  and  frivolous,'  put  in  Percy  in  the  same  tone  of 
irony.     '  Yes,  I  remember — I  know  all  you  mean  to  say.' 

'  I  think,'  Isabel  went  on,  still  making  an  effort  to  preserve 
her  self-control — ^  I  think  you  ought  to  put  a  stop  to  Arthur's 
going  so  much  to  your  house.  She  is  not  open  with  you,  Percy ; 
say  what  you  will  about  being  able  to  trust  her,  there  are  things 
she  keeps  from  you.     Why  should  she  have  made  any  secret  of 

Arthur's  having  been  with  her  that  day  ?  why  should  she 

Ah,  yes,  you  are  angry  with  me,'  seeing  the  dark  look  he  flashed 
upon  her ;  '  I  knew  you  would  be — but  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
bear  it.  For  it  is  only  because  I  am  speaking  the  truth  that 
you  care  so  much  about  it.  Surely,  though,  it  is  better  to  put 
you  on  your  guard  now  before  it  is  too  late.  And  that  you  may 
know  I  don't  go  only  by  what  others  say,  I  can  tell  you  what  I 
know  myself.' 

And  in  a  few  hasty  words,  often  interrupted  by  her  brother's 
impatient  exclamations,  she  told  many  things  she  had  seen  and 
heard  which  she  believed  justified  the  idea  she  had  formed  of 
Lisa's  duplicity.  She  made  no  comment — she  only  stated  bare 
facts ;  but  these  were  enough  for  her  purpose  :  it  needed  no  re- 
marks of  hers,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  to  make  him  believe 
her  suspicions  were  correct ;  and  the  fierce,  indignant  impatience 
with  which  at  first  he  listened  to  her,  changed  by  degrees  into 
the  silence  of  despairing  conviction.  Alarmed  at  his  look  of  utter 
overpowering  misery,  ^he  stopped  short  suddenly. 

*  O  Lisa ! '  was  his  exclamation,  wrung  from  him  in  bitterness. 
Her  silence,  her  embarrassment — he  understood  all  now;  and 
not  only  that,  but  he  had  a  solution  of  all  that  had  lately  seemed 
strange  to  him  in  her  conduct. .  The  change  in  her  which  he  had 
remarked,  her  confusion  on  the  day  of  his  return  when  he  had 
found  Arthur  with  her  in  the  cottage  garden,  and  many  other 
things  remembered  only  too  well,  were  explained,  and  seemed  to 
prove  beyond  a  doubt  the  truth  of  Isabel's  assertion. 

Anger  until  now,  and  the  disbelief  which  he  had  tried  to 
pherish,  had  kept  him  up ;  but  when  disbelief  was  gone,  anger 


216  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY, 

too  went — it  was  swallowed  up  in  other  and  more  bitter  feelings ; 
and  as  he  stood  there,  almost  riveted,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  spot, 
his  sister  was  startled  by  the  expression  of  his  face  and  the 
anguish  written  in  it.  She  moved  forward  a  few  steps  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

^  Don't  look  like  that,  Percy,'  she  said  beseechingly.  *  Lisa  has 
been  thought  less  but  that  is  all — she  meant  no  harm  probably — 
no  more  did  Arthur.  They  have  only  been  foolish,'  she  added, 
repeating  Janet's  arguments  in  the  hope  of  giving  comfort ; 
'  but  it  is  at  an  end  now,  and  you  will  see  nothing  of  the  sort 
happens  again.  You  must  not  make  yourself  miserable ;  there 
is  no  real  harm  done,  you  know.' 

No  harm  done  !  Not  when  his  trust  was  gone — not  when  the 
love  of  which  he  had  been  so  proud  was  no  longer  his — when 
he  had  only  a  divided  heart,  and  his  wife  had  thoughts  and 
secrets  in  which  he  might  have  no  share.  And  she  had  been 
his  idol ;  his  first  thought  each  morning,  his  last  at  night,  had 
been  for  her — the  labour  of  his  life,  ever  since  he  had  called  her 
his,  had  been  to  make  her  happy.     And  he  had  believed  she 

was  so  ;  but  now !    No  harm  done  !    Ah,  Isabel  little  knew 

what  she  was  saying  when  she  gave  such  comfort  as  that !  But 
the  words  roused  him.  He  would  not  be  pitied,  no  one 
should  guess  anything  of  the  intense  bitterness  of  his  feelings. 
Shaking  off  her  hand,  he  walked  away,  turning  back,  however, 
before  he  had  gone  many  steps,  to  say  in  a  constrained  husky 
voice — 

*  I  shall  see  Arthur  when  he  comes  home.  I  shall  not  allow 
my  wife  to  be  talked  about  through  his  folly,  and  so  you  may 
tell  him.     He  shall  answer  to  me  for  it.* 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  strode  away  once  more, 
and  was  out  of  sight  before  she  knew  he  was  going.  And  then 
her  self-control  seemed  to  desert  her,  and  for  many  minutes  she 
remained  leaning  against  the  wicket-gate  with  her  face  hidden, 
striving  to  get  the  better  of  the  many  painful  feelings  that 
oppressed  her.  What  the  struggle  was,  however,  that  was  pass- 
ing in  her  mind — whether  she  regretted  the  step  she  had  taken, 
and  would,  had  it  been  possible,  have  recalled  it,  none  could 
tell.  She  raised  her  head  at  last,  slowly  and  almost  timidly,  as 
if  she  half  expected  to  see  some  one  she  dreaded  to  meet,  linger- 
ing near.  But  she  w^as  alone ;  there  was  no  one  there.  Only 
some  bird  with  its  bright  eye  looked  out  upon  her  from  a  neigh- 


THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN.  217 

bouring  shrub,  and  there  was  a  gentle  rustling  in  the  trees  around, 
but  all  besides  was  silence  and  solitude.  And  without  turning 
again,  with  a  downcast  eye  and  a  faltering  step,  she  left  the 
place  where  she  had  seen  the  wreck  of  her  brother's  happiness, 
and  went  slowly  and  thoughtfully  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXXIT. 

THE     SHADOWS     DEEPEN. 


Where  Percy  went  that  afternoon  no  one  ever  knew ;  he  did 
not  even  know  himself.  The  long  waning  hours  of  that  summer's 
day  passed  unheeded  by  him  ;  and  where  he  wandered,  or  what 
he  did,  he  never  afterwards  remembered.  He  only  knew  he  was 
alone — alone  with  that  stunning  grief  that  had  come  upon  him. 
His  sister  was  not  there  to  watch  him  with  those  pitying  eyes. 
There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  memory  of  all  his  idol  had 
been  to  him.  He  could  think  of  her  undisturbed;  of  his  beau- 
tiful, his  loved ;  so  prized  and  so  cherished,  but  so  changed  now. 
He  walked  in  the  presence  of  summer  that  day,  the  green  woods 
of  summer  waved  above  him,  summer  birds  sang  in  the  trees, 
and  summer  sunlight  sparkled  on  the  distant  waters  ;  but  for 
anything  he  knew  it  might  have  been  the  dreariest,  blackest 
night  of  winter.  The  brightness  was  gone  from  everything,  as 
it  was  gone  from  his  own  life. 

But  wretched  as  he  was,  the  first  overwhelming  tumult  of  his 
feelings  passed  away  by  degrees.  Those  hours  of  loneliness 
calmed  him  down,  and  gave  him  leisure  for  thought.  Though 
his  trust  in  Lisa  was  gone,  his  love  for  her  was  not — love  deep, 
tender,  and  enduring  as  ever  ;  and  with  that  love  remained  his 
care  and  thought  for  her.  She  was  in  no  situation  to  bear 
reproaches,  nor  should  she  hear  them  ;  no  word  from  him  should 


218  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

tell  her  of  the  pain  she  had  caused  him,  nor  should  anything  he 
could  do  be  wanting  for  her  happiness  and  comfort.  No  harm 
should  come  to  her  through  him ;  she  should  still  be  watched 
over  and  guarded  as  the  greatest  treasure  of  his  life ;  only — but 
he  put  away  that  thought  as  far  too  bitter  to  dwell  on ;  and  if 
when,  after  long  wanderings,  he  returned  to  his  home  that 
evening,  there  were  signs  of  the  storm  he  had  gone  through  in 
his  compressed  lip  and  hard  stern  face,  his  coldness  was  that  of 
manner  only ;  and  in  his  heart  there  was  nothing  but  the 
warmest,  most  passionate  love  for  the  little  wife  whose  heedless 
trifling  was  the  cause  of  his  misery. 

She  met  him  as  he  came  into  the  room  where  she  was  dressing 
for  dinner  with  a  smile,  which  had,  however,  something  anxious 
in  it. 

'  How  late  you  are  to-day,  Percy !  I  have  been  expecting 
you  since  two  o'clock.  You  told  me  you  would  be  at  home 
then.' 

*  Did  IV     He  looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was  past  seven. 

'  Yes ;  had  you  forgotten  ?     What  has  kept  you  so  long  1 ' 

He  said  something,  but  it  was  not  intelligible ;  and  he  was 
turning  away  when  a  sudden  thought  struck  him.  He  came 
back  to  the  table  at  which  she  was  standing,  watching  him  in 
some  uneasiness. 

'  I  was  at  Lassell  Lodge  this  afternoon,  Lisa.  Isabel  tells  me 
Arthur  is  gone  to  town.' 

He  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  his  tone  was  constrained, 
and  whether  she  noticed  it  or  not,  her  countenance  changed 
visibly  and  her  colour  deepened ;  but  although  she  must  have 
been  surprised  at  his  intelligence,  for  he  noticed  that  she  slightly 
started,  she  made  no  remark.  She  seemed  occupied  with  a 
bracelet  she  was  endeavouring  to  clasp,  but  which  in  her  nervous- 
ness slipped  from  her  hand  and  fell  upon  the  floor.  He  picked 
it  up  and  fastened  it  on  for  her,  and  then  said  in  a  voice  which 
agitation  made  even  colder  than  before — 

*  You  saw  a  good  deal  of  him,  I  suppose,  while  I  was  away  V 
It  was  a  question  which  she  had  not  expected,  and  she  started 

again,  and  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment ;  but  her  eye  fell 
beneath  his. 

*  I  don't  know  j  no,  not  much.  He  was  here  two  or  three 
times,  I  think.' 

It  was  enough.     Until  then  he  had  had  some  lingering  hope 


THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN.  219 

that  there  might  be  some  mistake  ;  that,  if  she  liked,  she  might 
have  given  some  explanation  to  satisfy  him  :  he  had  even  put 
the  question  in  the  trust  that  by  meeting  her  half  way  he  might 
lead  her  to  be  open;  but  that  hope  was  gone  now.  JSTot  only 
was  she  meeting  him  with  reserve,  but  with  positive  untruth ; 
and  if  she  could  condescend  to  that,  where  indeed  was  his  trust 
to  be  ?  He  let  her  hand  fall,  and  walking  away  to  his  dressing- 
room,  closed  the  door  without  another  word. 

He  came  down  to  dinner  silent  and  grave ;  and  Lisa,  too,  was 
silent.  She  made  an  effort  later  to  recover  herself;  and  when 
she  returned  from  a  visit  to  Elinor's  room,  and  found  him  sitting 
at  the  open  window  in  the  twilight,  she  opened  the  piano  and 
proposed  some  music. 

'  Nelly  is  so  much  better  to-night/  she  said,  *  that  we 
needn't  be  afraid  of  disturbing  her.  I  can  sing  as  long  as 
you  like.' 

There  was  no  answer  from  him ;  but  she  sat  down,  and  running 
her  fingers  over  the  keys,  began  one  of  his  favourite  songs.  He 
had  always  before  come  to  stand  over  her  while  she  was  singing, 
but  now  he  did  not  move.  She  listened  in  vain  for  his  step, 
and  when  she  had  finished  she  looked  round.  He  was  still 
sitting  in  the  same  attitude,  and  with  the  same  look  upon  his 
face ;  while  his  eye  watched  absently  the  waving  of  the  acacia- 
trees  on  the  little  garden  lawn.  She  turned  back  and  began 
another — some  verses  from  an  old  song  which  Isabel  had  once 
set  to  music,  and  which  he  had  often  heard  Mary  and  herself 
sing  together  at  home. 

'  Ah  me  !  art  thou  unknowing 

Of  the  happy  days  that  were  ? 
The  glede  was  then  all-glowing, 
And  life  was  then  all-fair. 

Then  thou  didst  walk  with  me,  love, 
With  me  thy  thoughts  didst  share  , 

Ne'er  thought  I  these  would  be,  love, 
The  happy  days  that  were. 

For  now  we  walk  apart,  love, 

Mistrust  is  all  we  share  ; 
And  locked  is  either's  heart,  love, 

Oh,  happy  days  that  were  ! ' 

But  even  that  did  not  bring  him  to  her  side,  and  her  voice 


220  ATHERSTONE  PRIOIVY. 

sounded  a  little  husky  at  last.  She  did  not  attempt  a  third, 
but  played  two  or  three  light  airs ;  and  then  getting  up,  closed 
the  piano,  and  presently  stole  up  to  the  window  where  he  sat. 
His  face  looked  stern  and  dark  in  the  fading  light,  and  if  she 
could  have  guessed  anything  of  the  wild  maddening  thoughts 
that  were  filling  his  heart  at  that  moment,  she  would  have  shrunk 
from  him  in  dismay  and  dread ;  for  all  the  deep  ungoverned 
feelings  of  his  passionate  nature  had  been  stirred  within  him 
while  she  sang.  The  sound  of  her  voice  in  that  old  well- 
remembered  song  had  awakened  the  memories  of  those  bygone 
times,  of  those  *  happy  days  that  were,'  and  he  felt  goaded  to 
desperation  by  the  recollection  of  them  ;  for  she  was  not  the 
same  she  had  been,  she  was  no  longer  his  Lisa,  to  whom  he  had 
once  been  all  in  all.  Eather,  far  rather,  he  said  to  himself, 
would  he  have  laid  her  in  her  grave  than  have  known  her  so 
changed ;  and  almost  the  wish  that  she  were  there,  that  he  had 
looked  his  last  at  her,  and  buried  away  out  of  sight  the  being  he 
loved  only  too  well,  was  in  his  heart. 

Poor  Lisa  !  She  guessed  nothing  of  that  mad  wild  wish.  She 
knew  nothing  of  those  dark  thoughts  within  him  ;  and  delicate 
fragile  child  as  she  was,  whom  a  touch  it  seemed  might  have 
crushed,  she  did  not  slnink  from  him.  She  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  beside  him,  and  then  when  she  found  he  still  took  no 
notice  of  her,  she  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and 
by-and-by  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  At  any  other  time 
he  would  have  responded  by  drawing  her  closer  to  him  ;  but  now 
ie  did  not  move. 

^  Percy,'  she  began  at  last  in  her  loving  tones,  '  you  are  tired, 
are  you  not  V 

*  No ;  not  particularly.'     He  spoke  with  an  effort. 

*  Where  have  you  been  all  day  ? '  she  asked  again.  *  It  was 
so  dull  without  you.  I  was  wondering  all  the  afternoon  where 
you  were,  and  wanting  you  back.' 

AVanting  him  !  No  ;  a  few  hours  ago  he  might  have  believed 
that,  but  not  now.  He  sat  up  suddenly,  and  the  movement 
made  her  raise  herself  also,  She  looked  at  him  in  sur- 
prise. 

*  What  are  you  going  to  do?  Where  are  you  going?'  she 
said,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

*  I  don't  know — out,  I  believe.  Anywhere  away  from  here,' 
he  muttered. 


THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN.  221 

*  Out !  and  you  have  been  in  sucli  a  little  time  !  Oh,  but/ 
she  added,  brightening  again,  '  may  I  come  with  you  1 ' 

*  You  /'  It  was  from  her  he  was  longing  to  get  away.  *  No ; 
of  course  not.     It  is  far  too  late  for  you  to  be  out.' 

*  Is  it  ] '  It 's  not  dark  yet.  I  haven't  been  out  at  all  to-day, 
Percy.  I  was  with  Nelly  this  morning,  and  all  the  afternoon  I 
was  waiting  for  you.' 

'  Indeed  !  But  there  was  no  need  to  have  done  that ;  there 
was  Lane  to  go  with  you  if  you  wished — if  indeed '  (oh,  what 
evil  demon  within  him  prompted  the  speech  !) — '  if  indeed  you 
thought  it  necessary  to  consult  my  wishes  in  such  a  trifle  ;  if 
not,  a  walk  alone  would  have  answered  the  purpose  equally 
well.' 

Lisa's  face  crimsoned  :  even  in  the  dusky  twilight  he  could  see 
the  change  in  her  countenance. 

*I  thought — I  hoped — O  Percy,  won't  you  forgive  me?  I 
thought  you  had.'     She  burst  into  tears. 

*  What,  for  that  walk  alone  ?  Of  course  I  have,  there  was 
nothing  in  it.  Nothing  certainly  to  cause  any  tears,'  he  added 
impatiently,  irritated  at  the  sight  of  her  distress.  *  Pray 
don't  let  us  have  a  scene,  Lisa;  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so 
much.' 

Lisa  dried  her  eyes  quickly,  and  made  an  attempt  to  check  her 
almost  hysterical  sobbing. 

*  I  am  very  sorry.     I  didn't  mean  to  be  foolish  and  vex  you, 

only  I  am  so — so ' She  was  obliged  to  stop  once  more,  or  she 

would  have  broken  down  again.  It  was  so  long  since  she  had 
heard  angry  words  of  any  kind,  that  she  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  them  now;  and  coming  as  they  did  from  him,  they 
seemed  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  stood,  keeping  back  her 
tears,  but  looking  the  picture  of  misery.  And  he  had  no  sooner 
uttered  those  hasty  words  than  he  bitterly  repented  them. 
Where  were  his  resolutions  of  that  afternoon  1  his  resolutions  that 
she  should  hear  no  reproaches  from  him,  and  that,  wretched  as 
he  himself  might  be,  it  should  never  be  his  fault  if  she  were  not 
happy  ?  He  had  forgotten  them  all,  broken  them  before  a  few 
hours  were  over,  and  yet  all  the  time  he  loved  her  more  than  he 
had  ever  done.  But  that  was  the  very  reason ;  it  was  the  thought 
that  he  was  so  little  to  her,  while  she  was  all  the  world  to  him, 
which  was  making  him  so  ungenerously  harsh  with  her.  He 
turned  to  her  now  with  a  heavy  sigh. 


222  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

'  Lisa,  I  was  wrong.     I  had  no  right  to  be  angry  with  you ; 

and  I  should  not  have  been,  but ' he  hesitated.     She  looked 

so  beautiful  as  his  words  brought  the  sudden  light  back  to  her 
face,  and  as  she  raised  her  eyes  full  of  glad  surprise  to  his  face, 
that  he  could  not  meet  her  gaze.     ^  The  truth  is,  I  have  heard 

something  to-day  which  has well,  never  mind.     No  need  I 

should  have  been  unjust  to  you  on  that  account.  You  must  for- 
get what  I  said,  Lisa.     I  did  not  mean  it.' 

*  You  didn't  mean  it  I  O  Percy,  thank  you  !  And  if  you 
only  would  really  forgive  me,  you  don't  know  how  happy  it  would 

make  me.     I  couldn't  help  being  sorry  just  now,  because ' 

her  voice  faltered.  *  Did  you  say  something  had  vexed 
you  to-day  1  What  is  it  ?  You  will  tell  me,  won't  you  1 '  She 
looked  at  him  beseechingly.  Ah,  who  would  have  dreamed  she 
could  act  a  part  so  well  ?  Lisa,  who  once  had  been  so  true,  so  frank 
and  guileless?  That  was  the  thought  that  crossed  his  mind, 
when  for  one  moment,  softened  and  disarmed,  he  had  been  about 
to  yield  to  the  influence  of  her  beauty  and  loving  ways. 

*  I  can  tell  you  nothing ;  let  me  go,'  he  exclaimed  hastily,  as 
she  was  trying  to  detain  him ;  and  then  checking  himself  once 
more,  he  said  in  a  tone  half  of  irony,  half  of  sadness,  *  Leave  me 
to  myself,  Lisa ;  it  is  nothing  that  will  trouble  you.  Better  you 
should  ask  no  questions.' 

He  disengaged  himself  from  her  detaining  hand,  and  left  the 
room.  She  heard  him  cross  the  hall  and  the  house  door  close 
after  him,  and  the  heavy  sound  seemed  to  send  a  shiver  through 
her.  When  its  last  echo  died  away,  she  sat  down  where  she  had 
been  standing,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  did 
not  cry  now ;  he  had  said  he  did  not  like  tears,  so  at  any  cost 
they  must  be  kept  back ;  but  she  sat  in  the  gathering  darkness, 
and  felt  so  wretched  and  lonely  that  it  would  have  been  well  for 
her  if  she  could  have  given  way  to  the  grief  she  was  trying  to  re- 
strain. 

The  shadows  had  indeed  fallen  on  a  home  that  had  once  beea 
one  of  the  happiest  in  the  land. 


UP  AMONG  THE  HILLS  AGAIN.  223 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

UP  AMONG  THE  HILLS  AGAIN. 

'  And  you  promise  me,  then  ?     O  Arthur,  do  tell  me  you  will/ 

*  Upon  my  honour  I  will.  What  makes  you  look  at  me  in  that 
way,  Lisa  1 ' 

*  I  don't  know  ' her  voice  faltered  a  little.     ^  I  have  been 

so  unhappy  lately ;  and — I  am  half  afraid.     But  you  really  will 
nowV 

*  Haven't  I  given  you  my  word  ]  Don't  be  such  an  unbeliever. 
And  now  I  must  be  off,  so  good-bye  till  to-morrow.' 

Lisa  smiled,  but  it  was  a  little  uneasily.  *  Are  you  going 
home  now  1 '  she  asked,  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

'  No,  indeed ;  I  wish  I  were.  I  had  a  note  from  the  Warren 
this  morning,  and  must  go  over  there  first.  Good-bye.'  And 
away  he  went.  She  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  in  the 
road  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  silence  followed ;  while  in  the 
house  itself  there  was  a  long  unbroken  stillness,  for  Percy  was 
away,  having  gone  out  only  a  few  minutes  before  Arthur  had  made 
his  appearance,  and  there  were  no  signs  at  present  of  his  return. 

It  was  a  quiet  summer's  evening,  the  only  sounds  around  being 
the  ripple  of  the  waves  upon  the  beach,  and  the  distant  voices  of 
children  at  their  play.  What  were  Lisa's  thoughts  as,  long  after 
Arthur  had  left  her,  she  sat  at  the  open  window  with  her  head 
resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fixed  dreamily  on  the  far-off 
horizon  ?  Her  face  in  the  evening  sunlight  looked  sad  and  pale ; 
and  Prince,  who  was  crouching  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  kept 
thrusting  his  nose  between  her  fingers  for  the  caresses  he  was 
accustomed  to  receive,  whined  pitifully  once  or  twice  when  he 
found  they  did  not  come. 

The  sun  went  down  behind  the  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  bay, 
the  golden  glow  that  he  had  left  upon  the  waters  faded  away,  and 
the  shadows  of  night  stole  over  the  grey  sea  and  the  darkening 
sky,  but  she  never  moved.  It  was  not  until  Lane  came  in  with 
the  lamp  that  she  appeared  to  remember  how  late  it  was,  and 
that  she  was  still  alone.     She  started  then. 


224  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  But  I  was  only  resting/  she  said  in  answer  to  her  nurse's 
inquiries.  *  I  don't  want  anything.  And  you  may  leave  that 
window  open,  Lane,  at  present,  please.  It 's  very  hot  to-night, 
and  Major  Tennent  comes  in  that  way  sometimes.' 

Lane  gave  a  grunt  expressive  of  some  little  dissatisfaction  as 
she  closed  the  shutters  of  the  other  window.  *  Is  he  going  to  be 
out  long,  Miss  Lisa  ? '  She  had  never  yet  arrived  at  calling  her 
young  mistress  by  any  other  name  than  the  old  familiar  one  by 
which  she  had  always  known  her.  *  You  must  find  it  very  dull, 
dear,  all  alone  by  yourself,  It 's  a  good  bit  more  than  two  hours 
since  he  went,  isn't  it  1 ' 

Lisa  stopped  a  sigh  that  was  coming.  *  I  don't  know.  He  will 
be  back  soon,  I  daresay ;  I  'm  not  dull,'  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
naturally.  But  Lane  was  not  so  easily  deceived,  she  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  sad  face  as  she  was  crossing  the  room,  and 
drew  her  own  conclusions  from  it.  She  said  no  more,  however, 
and  after  lingering  two  or  three  minutes  longer,  arranging  chairs 
and  books,  disappeared,  saying  something  as  she  went  about 
coming  back  soon  if  Major  Tennent  did  not  return. 

She  had  been  gone  some  time,  and  Lisa  was  really  beginning 
to  feel  lonely,  and  to  wonder  what  could  be  the  cause  of  her 
husband's  long  delay,  when  she  heard  the  garden  gate  open,  and 
steps  upon  the  gravel  walk  leading  up  from  the  beach.  She  rose 
quickly  then,  and  going  to  the  table,  took  up  some  work  that 
was  lying  there.  Her  head  was  bent  over  it,  and  her  fingers 
were  very  busy,  when  Percy  entered  through  the  open  window; 
but,  though  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  appeared  intent 
on  what  she  was  doing,  she  did  not  make  much  progress  with 
it.  It  was  a  baby's  frock,  and  there  were  not  many  stitches 
required  to  finish  it ;  ten  minutes'  work  would  have  completed 
all  there  was  to  do,  but  her  hand  was  unsteady,  and  perhaps 
there  was  something  in  Percy's  quick  impatient  step  up  and 
down  the  room  which  discomposed  her.  He  had  not  said  a 
word  when  he  came  in,  and  it  was  as  well  for  her  she  did  not 
look  up;  that  heavy  ominous-sounding  tread  indeed  warned  her 
that  something  was  wrong,  and  kept  her  eyes  down.  The  silence 
between  them  was  becoming  oppressive,  and  how  long  it  might 
have  continued  would  be  hard  to  say,  had  he  not  in  his  walk 
across  the  room  come  upon  something  lying  on  the  floor  and 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  It  was  a  man's  glove,  and  thinking 
it  was  his  own,  he  was  about  to  fling  it  on  a  table  near,  when  a 


UP  AMONG  O^HR  HILLS  AGAIN.  225 

tliouglit  struck  liim,  and  he  turned  to  the  light  with  it.  The 
sudden  cessation  in  his  walk,  and  his  pause  so  near  her,  made 
Lisa  look  up,  but  she  shrank  awaj?-  as  she  caught  sight  of  his 
face .  For  some  minutes  he  looked  at  the  glove  without  speak- 
ing; then  he  held  it  out  to  her. 

*  Whose  is  that,  Lisa?'  he  said  in  a  strange  stern  tone  that 
made  her  tremble  from  head  to  foot;  and  which  seemed,  too, 
to  take  from  her  all  power  of  speech,  for  though  her  lips  moved, 
no  sound  came  from  them. 

*He  is  come  home  then,  is  heV  he  went  on  in  the  same  low 
and  terribly  unnatural  voice.  'And  he  has  been  here?  What 
did  he  come  for?' 

She  looked  at  him  with  frightened  eyes  and  quivering  lip; 
but  still  no  answer  came. 

*  Do  you  hear  me,  Lisa?'  he  exclaimed  passionately,  and  for- 
getting all  prudence  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  He  was 
wound  up  to  such  a  pitch,  indeed,  that  he  scarcely  knew  what 
he  was  doing;  and  the  signs  of  agitation  in  her,  which  would 
have  softened  him  at  any  other  time,  now  served  only  to  exas- 
perate him. 

*  Do  you  hear  me  ? '  he  repeated  hoarsely.  *  He  has  been  here, 
has  he  not?' 

She  gasped  for  breath.  *  Arthur,  do  you  mean  ? '  she  said 
faintly.  *  Yes.  But  he  is  gone  now — to  the  Warren.  He  came 
just  after  you  went  out,'  she  added. 

Percy's  brow  was  dark  as  a  thundercloud.  *He  did?  And 
you  can  stand  there  and  tell  me  so !  Lisa,  do  you  know  what 
you  are  doing?'  And  he  seized  her  arm  and  grasped  it  so 
roughly  that  she  uttered  a  cry  of  pain.  *  What  did  he  come 
for?     Will  you  answer  me  that  ?' 

But  Lisa's  head  was  drooping,  for  she  w^as  sick  and  giddy 
with  the  pain  of  that  iron  grasp,  and  she  made  no  reply. 

*Ah,  it's  enough,'  he  said,  in  bitter  scorn.  *I  see  hov/ 
it  is;  and  better  certainly  you  should  be  silent  than  try  to 
deceive  me  with  excuses  that  can  have  no  truth  in  them.  And 
now,  Lisa,  listen  to  me.  Never  again  do  you  see  him — never 
again  does  he  come  to  this  house.  Yes,  you  may  look,  but  you 
cannot  pretend  to  misunderstand.  If  he  ever  crosses  this  thres- 
hold, or  tries  to  meet  you,  he  will  rue  it  most  dearly.  You  have 
said  your  last  words  to  him ;  and  once  for  all,  I  forbid  you  to  see 
or  speak  to  him  again.     Do  you  hear?' 

P 


226  ATHEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  Yes,  I  hear  you.'  Her  face  was  very  pale  and  her  lips  white. 
*0  Percy,  don't  hurt  me!'  she  exclaimed,  bursting  into  tears. 
*  Don't  hurt  me;  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  have  done  nothing 
wrong — indeed — indeed  I  haven't.' 

*  You  have  done  nothing  wTong !'  he  repeated  with  great  bitter- 
ness. *  Ah,  well,  as  far  as  deeds  are  concerned,  I  believe  you, 
Lisa — if  you  call  it  '^  nothing  wrong"  to  stop  short  of  them,  I 
believe  you.  But  do  you  call  it  no  wrong  to  have  trifled  with 
me,  to  have  deceived  me  as  you  have  done?  Is  it  no  wrong  to 
have  forgotten  your  promises,  and  been  false  to  me  in  your 
heart — to  me  who  loved  as  I  believe  no  other  man  ever  loved 
before — who  had  no  thought  but  for  you,  no  wish  but  to  make 
you  happy.  For  I  worshipped  you,  Lisa!  I  thought  you  good 
and  true;  and  you  could  deceive  me!  Ah,  you  may  well  hide 
your  face !  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  it — never  seen  the  beauty 
of  which  I  have  been  so  proud.  And  yet  I  love  you  still.  Yes, 
that  is  my  misery — that,  when  your  love  for  me  is  gone,  I  should 
still  love  you  as  well  as  in  the  days,  the  happiest  days  of  all  my 
life,  when  I  fancied  you  had  no  thought  for  any  but  me  !  Ah, 
well,  that  dream  is  over  now,  and  would  it  had  never  come ! 
Would  I  had  never  known  you,  Lisa  !  I  should  be  happier  now; 
happier  than  I  shall  ever  be  again ! ' 

He  flung  her  from  him,  and  with  a  look  of  agony  written  on 
every  feature,  rushed  from  the  room.  He  heard  a  cry,  a  low 
wailing  cry  of  misery  as  he  w^ent,  but  it  did  not  stop  him ;  and 
although  it  was  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  as  in  his  blind  fury  he 
dashed  down  the  road  leading  away  from  his  home,  it  had  no 
power  to  turn  him.  To  get  away  from  her,  to  meet  him  who 
was  the  cause  of  his  wretchedness,  was  his  one  thought;  and 
bent  on  this,  he  hurried  on,  maddened  and  desperate.  Down 
the  quiet  shady  lane  he  went,  where  she  had  often  walked  with 
him,  and  out  on  the  moonlit  road  where  the  hedges  grew  low, 
and  the  clumps  of  trees  were  few  and  far  between — where  the 
wind  from  the  ocean  blew  fresh  and  cool,  and  the  murmur  of 
the  waves  upon  the  rocky  shore  fell  soothingly  on  the  ear.  But 
not  on  his ;  its  music  had  no  power  to  still  the  wild  tumult  of 
his  spirit.  He  hurried  on,  and  did  not  know  when  its  last 
sounds  had  died  away,  and  he  was  alone  with  the  silence  of  the 
night.  The  hills  which  rose  above  him  to  the  right  looked  wild 
and  solitary  in  the  moonlight,  and  among  them  lay  the  road  to 
the  Warren.     And  Arthur  was  there;  she  had  said  so.     The 


UP  AMONG  THE  HILLS  AGADT.  227 

thought  was  enough,  and  he  turned  that  way  with  long  strides, 
that  soon  took  him  up  those  steep  hillsides,  and  into  the  lonely 
road  he  sought.  Very  lonely  it  was — very  desolate ;  and  not  a 
living  creature  crossed  his  path  as  he  wandered  on ;  more  slowly 
now,  for  what  need  for  haste  when  he  and  his  cousin  must  surely 
meet  at  last.  And  then — but  what  was  to  come  then,  he  did 
not  ask  himself.  Only  the  stern  and  deep-set  lines  upon  his  face, 
and  his  fiercely-clenched  hand,  told  of  the  feelings  that  possessed 
him. 

And  so  he  wandered  on  until  he  came  at  last  to  those 
same  woods  where,  not  many  weeks  before,  he  and  Lisa  had 
come  together.  There  was  a  change  there  since  that  time  ; 
for  the  trees,  which  then  had  just  been  bursting  into  leaf,  were 
now  full  with  all  their  summer  foliage;  the  pink  flush  of 
the  elm  had  turned  to  green,  and  the  maple  and  the  beech 
stood  out  thickly  dark  against  the  evening  sky ;  but  the  place 
itself  was  the  same.  There  were  the  high  banks  where  she 
had  found  her  wild-flowers,  and  there,  as  he  came  to  a  turning 
in  the  road,  was  the  broad  sheet  of  water  beside  which  they 
had  sat  on  that  May  afternoon.  It  lay  as  it  had  lain  then, 
without  a  ripple  on  its  surface ;  only  there  was  no  sparkling 
sunlight  on  it  now.  The  trees  that  flung  the  long  shadows 
of  their  boughs  across  its  waters  looked  like  the  guardian 
genii  of  the  place,  and  all  around  it  darkness  and  silence 
brooded — silence  so  still  and  deep  that  it  seemed  as  if  some 
mystery  enshrouded  it.  The  voice  of  the  night  wind  in  the 
far-ojff  woods  did  not  reach  the  spot,  and  the  stars,  which  looked 
down  with  their  grave  and  solemn  eyes  from  their  watches 
on  high,  could  not  pierce  the  shades  that  hung  over  it,  or 
light  up  its  dreamy  depths.  Very  quiet  and  lonely  it  was ; 
and  pausing  beside  the  stone  where  Lisa  had  once  found  a 
seat,  he  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dark  water  before 
him,  lost  in  most  bitter  thoughts.  For  as  he  stood  there 
with  folded  arms  in  the  gloom  and  shadow,  in  fancy  that 
sunny  day  came  back  once  more,- and  Lisa  was  with  him  there. 
Again  he  saw  the  waving  of  the  green  boughs  above  her  head, 
and  the  light  that  danced  among  the  early  leaves ;  he  saw 
it  playing  round  her — on  her  hair  of  brown  and  gold,  and 
on  her  upturned  face ;  and  again  he  met  the  gaze  of  her  shy 
dark  eyes,  and  listened  to  the  sweet  girlish  tones  of  her  voice^ 
and  the  low  music   of  her  lauofh.     But  then  the  vision  was 


228  ATHERSTONE  PPwIORY. 

gone  again ;  and  he  started  to  find  himself  alone,  at  night, 
by  that  lonely  pool  among  the  woods  and  hills,  and  to  remember 
what  had  brought  him  there — to  remember,  too,  that  the  voice 
to  which  in  fancy  he  had  been  listening  was  a  thing  now  of 
other  days,  that  its  tones  could  never  sound  again  to  him  as 
they  had  sounded  then,  that  the  face  on  which  he  had  looked 
with  such  pride  was  altered ;  its  brightness  dimmed,  its  beauty 
all  gone  for  him.  Instead  of  that  vision  of  sunny  loveliness 
which  his  fancy  had  conjured  up,  he  saw  her  as  she  was  in 
reality,  as  he  had  left  her  not  long  before — a  pale,  frightened, 
and  shrinking  thing.  Ah,  how  unlike  his  little  Lisa,  the  pride 
once  of  his  life,  the  flower  of  his  home  ! 

How  long  he  stood  there  he  did  not  know.  But  there  was 
a  sound  at  last  which  roused  him,  and  as  he  raised  his  head 
to  listen  he  became  aware  of  a  change  around  him.  The 
moon  was  still  shining  at  intervals,  but  it  was  from  between 
dark  masses  of  clouds  which  were  fast  gathering  in  the  sky ; 
and  there  was  no  stillness  now  among  the  trees  and  on  the 
hillsides ;  the  low,  far-off  murmur  of  the  evening  wind  had 
changed  to  another  and  a  drearier  tone,  and  a  whistling  and 
a  wailing  was  in  the  woods.  There  were  signs  of  a  coming 
storm ;  but  though  he  noted  these,  it  was  not  to  think  of  them. 
He  had  no  thought  then  for  anything  but  that  other  sound 
which  his  ear  had  caught,  and  which  he  heard  still,  above  the 
rush  and  the  moaning  in  the  tree-tops — that  sound  of  horse's 
lioofs  on  the  distant  road.  With  a  strange  fixed  look  upon 
his  face,  he  stood  watching  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  rider 
with  an  impatience  that  was  almost  beyond  control. 

He  came  at  last ;  the  dark  forms  of  man  and  horse  were 
discernible  among  the  trees,  and  some  seconds  afterwards  they 
emerged  on  the  more  open  road  that  bordered  the  pool.  And 
there  they  paused ;  and  in  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  which 
shone  out  from  behind  a  cloud,  the  rider  stooped  down  to 
examine  something  that  was  amiss  with  his  horse.  He  raised 
his  head  after  a  moment^s  inspection,  and  then  the  light  fell 
full  on  his  face,  and  Percy  saw  he  was  not  mistaken.  It  was 
Arthur  who  was  before  him. 

And  then  came  a  rush  of  thoughts  from  which  in  calmer 
moments  he  would  have  shrunk  in  horror.  There  was  the 
cousin  who  had  wronged  him — the  cousin  whom  he  had  always 
looked  upon  as  a  brother,  who   had  been  free   to   come   and 


UP  AMONG  THE  HILLS  AGAIN.  229 

go  as  lie  liked  in  liis  house,  who  had  always  found  a  welcome 
there.  There  he  sat  with  a  smile  upon  his  handsome  face, 
and  burning  feelings  of  hatred  were  in  Percy's  heart  as  he 
looked  at  him,  while  wild  thoughts  of  revenge  crossed  his  mind. 
That  lonely  road — that  deep  pool — Avhat  tales  would  they  ever 
tell  of  dark  deeds  done  there  ?  He  pressed  his  hands  upon  his 
burning  brow,  as  if  to  shut  out  that  deadly  thought ;  but  once 
again  it  came.  Once  more  he  looked  at  his  unconscious  cousin, 
and  then  at  those  dark  silent  waters  at  his  feet.  No  voice  from 
their  depths  would  ever  tell  of  the  grave  that  had  been  found 
there — the  green  boughs  that  waved  above  them,  the  winds  that 
moaned  and  whistled  round  would  not  betray  the  secret;  the 
very  sky  was  veiled  in  clouds,  and  the  stars  that  had  watched 
him  with  their  thousand  eyes  were  hidden  from  his  sight.  He 
and  his  cousiii  were  alone ;  revenge  was  in  his  power.  It  was  a 
moment  of  madness ;  and  not  darker  and  more  stormy  was  the 
sky  above  him  than  was  the  rush  of  wild,  uncontrolled  thoughts 
prompting  him  to  that  deed  of  terrible  vengeance.  With  one 
hurried  glance  round,  he  half  started  from  the  shade  in  which  he 
had  been  standing  and  made  a  step  forward.  Oh,  surely  at  that 
moment  it  must  have  been  his  good  angel  who  in  the  rush  of  the 
wild  wind  passed  by  him  and  stayed  his  uplifted  hand  with  a 
v/hisper  of  words  well-nigh  forgotten — of  words  learnt  long  years 
ago  as  a  little  child  at  his  mother's  knee — the  words  of  the  Chris- 
tian's daily  prayer,  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us 
from  evil '  !  Into  what  temptation  was  he  not  then  entering  1 
to  what  thoughts  of  deadly  evil  had  he  not  given  way,  and  where 
were  they  not  leading  him  1  He,  Percy  Tennent,  a  murderer  ! 
Had  it  come  to  that  ]  That  he,  who,  even  in  the  din  and  excite- 
ment of  battle,  had  stayed  to  save  the  life  of  one  who  had  cruelly 
wronged  him,  should  now  raise  his  hand  in  cold  blood  against 
another,  who  had  been  as  a  brother  to  him  !  Should  he  add  the 
misery  of  crime  to  all  his  present  wretchedness,  and  go  through 
life  haunted  by  a  recollection  of  that  night,  and  a  fell  deed  of 
vengeance  done  then«2  Would  fhat  vengeance,  too,  undo  the 
past,  or  bring  him  back  the  happiness  he  had  lost  1  Would  it 
bring  him  back  Lisa's  smiles,  Lisa's  love  1  Would  it  make  his 
home  again  what  it  had  been  1  or  would  it  not  rather  darken  it 
with  an  ever-deepening  shadow  1 

He  paused.     '  Lead  me  not  into  temptation  '  was  perhaps  his 
prayer,  for  his  hand  fell;  and  in  that  moment  of  hesitation, 


230  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Arthur,  unconscious  of  the  danger  in  which  he  had  stood,  passed 
on,  and  Percy  was  once  more  left  alone  with  the  silence  and  soli- 
tude of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXiy. 


DISCLOSURES. 


Therhj  was  a  dance  that  evening  at  Lassell  Lodge,  where  a  gay 
party  was  assembled.  The  rooms  were  sparkling  with  lights, 
and  bright  with  flowers  and  ladies'  dresses,  and  strains  of  music 
rang  out  and  filled  the  air  with  their  enlivening  sounds.  On 
every  side  smiling  faces  and  joyous  looks  spoke  of  the  pleasure 
which  all  had  come  to  seek,  and  which,  with  one  exception,  all 
seemed  to  have  found.  That  exception  was  Elinor  Tennent. 
She  had  returned  to  her  cousin's,  but  was  very  far  from  having 
recovered  her  strength  since  her  illness ;  and  as  she  sat  at  one 
of  the  bay-windows,  which  had  been  set  wide  open  to  admit 
as  much  air  as  possible,  she  looked  very  pale  and  listless. 
Janet,  who  was  crossing  the  room,  stopped  for  a  moment  beside 
her. 

'  Tired  out,  Nelly  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  alone  ]  I 
thought  I  saw  Cunninghame  with  you  just  now  1  * 

*  Yes,  he  has  gone  to  get  me  an  ice.     How  hot  it  is  to-night !  * 
^  Yery.     I  think  we  shall  have  a  storm.     But  you  need  not 

look  so  frightened.  It  has  not  begun  yet.  If  it  comes,  too,  we 
shall  not  hear  it  through  the  music'  She  laughed  as  Elinor 
glanced  nervously  at  the  dark  sky. 

*  I  wonder  where  Arthur  is  ! '  she  added  after  a  pause,  perhaps 
with  the  charitable  intention  of  diverting  her  companion's 
thoughts.  *  He  can't  be  coming  this  evening.  And  I  quite  ex- 
pected him.  I  thought  he  wouldn't  have  missed  a  dance  for  a 
good  deal.' 


.      DISCLOSUKES.  231 

*  Yes,  but  the  last  train  does  not  come  in  till  nearly  twelve ; 
he  has  hardly  had  time  to  get  here  yet.  I  daresay  we  shall  see 
him  in  a  few  minutes/ 

*  Perhaps  so.  Ah,  there  is  Mrs  Lawrence !  I  must  go  and 
speak  to  her/     And  Janet  moved  away  again. 

She  had  not  been  gone  two  minutes,  and  Elinor  was  still 
absorbed  in  watching  a  black  mass  of  threatening-looking  clouds 
which  had  caught  her  attention  at  the  first  mention  of  a  storm, 
when  the  opening  of  a  door  beside  her  made  her  look  round.  It 
was  not  the  regular  entrance,  and  she  wondered  who  could  be 
making  their  way  in  that  direction.  Her  astonishment  was  still 
greater  when,  upon  moving  her  chair  a  little  to  give  free  ingress 
to  the  new-comer,  she  discovered  it  was  her  own  brother. 

*Why,  Percy,  what  brings  you  here?'  she  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise; but  as  he  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  she  was 
startled  at  the  expression  of  his  face.  '  Is  anything  the  matter  ]* 
she  asked  in  alarm. 

'  Where  is  Janet  V  he  said,  without  noticing  the  question. 
*Is  she  heref 

She  looked  round  the  room.  ^  She  was  with  me  just  now. 
But — Percy,  what  is  the  matter?     How  strange  you  look!' 

*  Never  mind  how  I  look,'  was  the  peremptory  answer.  ^  Find 
Janet  for  me,  and  tell  her  I  want  her  at  once.'  And  without 
giving  her  time  for  another  question,  he  turned  away  and  closed 
the  door. 

Alarmed  by  his  manner,  Elinor  went  in  search  of  her  cousin, 
whom  she  discovered  in  the  music-room  with  Mrs  Lawrence. 

^ Percy  here!  Why  didn't  he  come  in?'  Janet  said,  when  she 
heard  his  message.  *What  is  the  matter,  Nelly!  Is  anything 
WTong?' 

*  I  don't  know,'  Elinor  said.  '  Go  directly,  Janet,  won't  you  ] 
He 's  waiting  for  you.' 

There  was  no  need  to  hasten  her  cousin's  movements,  for 
Janet  was  gone  before  she  had  done  speaking,  and  Elinor,  left 
behind,  tried  to  give  her  attention  to  Mrs  Lawrence,  and  answer 
her  questions;  but  her  nervousness  increased  every  moment,  and 
when  after  a  time  they  were  joined  by  some  one  else,  she  seized 
the  opportunity  of  making  her  escape.  Going  into  the  entrance- 
hall,  she  found  great  confusion  there;  servants  were  running  about 
in  all  directions,  and  through  a  half-open  door  she  heard  Janet's 
voice  raised  to  an  excited  key.     What  had  happened?     Some- 


232  ATHEIiSTONE  PRIORY. 

thing,  she  was  sure — something  dreadful,  as  the  recollection  of 
lier  brother's  face  came  back  to  her  mind;  and  with  a  shudder 
she  w^as  about  to  turn  away,  when  some  new  thought  struck  her 
and  she  went  on.  Before  she  reached  the  opposite  door  she 
-vvas  stopped  by  one  of  the  servants. 

*I  think,  miss,  you  had  better  not  go  in  there,'  he  began; 
*  Mr  Arthur  has ' 

At  that  moment,  however,  the  door  was  suddenly  opened 
wider  by  Isabel,  who  was  coming  out,  and  a  sight  met  Elinor's 
eyes  which  her  worst  fears  had  not  conjured  up. 

On  a  sofa  lay  Arthur;  his  face  deadly  pale,  his  fair  hair  wet 
and  dabbled  with  blood,  and  his  left  arm  hanging  helplessly  by 
his  side.  He  looked  as  if  life  were  gone;  and  she  believed  it 
was.  But  in  her  blanched  and  terror-stricken  countenance  there 
were  other  feelings  depicted  besides  those  of  natural  dread  at 
what  she  saw\  There  was  sudden  anguish  written  there,  and 
overpowering  grief ;  and  her  sister,  who  had  been  passing  her  in 
haste,  stopped  short,  alarmed  at  her  look.  At  first  she  stood 
motionless,  almost  as  if  paralysed,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  uncon- 
scious form  before  her ;  but  the  power  of  thought  and  action 
came  back,  and  then,  with  a  shriek  that  rang  through  the  house, 
she  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the  startled  group  who  had  gathered 
round  the  sofa. 

*  Arthur,  Arthur,  O  Arthur!'  she  exclaimed  wildly.  *  Oh, 
who  has  done  this  ?  Who  has  taken  him  from  me  ?  Yes,  from 
me — for  he  was  mine.  Oh,  what  am  I  saying  ?  I  didn't  mean 
to  tell.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Arthur ;  I  didn't  know  what 
I  said.  Ah,  he  can't  hear  me,  he  is  dead  !'  And  in  an  agony 
of  grief  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  burst 
into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 

To  describe  the  consternation,  the  bewilderment,  which  her 
unexpected  appearance  and  wild  incoherent  words  caused  among 
the  bystanders  would  be  impossible.  For  some  moments  they 
looked  at  each  other  in  blank  dismay,  and  Elinor's  sobs  were 
the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  silence  of  the  room.  But  Percy, 
whose  face,  hard  and  stern  before,  had  grown  still  sterner  at  her 
words,  spoke  at  last. 

*  Take  her  away,'  he  said  to  Janet ;  ^  she  does  not  know  what 
she  is  saying.  And  keep  those  people  out,  they  must  not  come 
here.'  For  the  dancers,  alarmed  at  that  appalling  shriek,  were 
making  their  way  into  the  hall,  dismay  in  every  face.     Their 


DISCLOSURES.  233 

voices  recalled  Elinor  to  herself,  and  there  was  no  need  then  of 
entreaties  from  Janet  that  she  would  not  stay.  Frightened  and 
ashamed  of  what  she  had  done,  she  rose  hastily,  and  as  others 
about  her  made  way  for  the  surgeon,  who  appeared  at  that 
moment,  she  escaped  in  the  general  confusion.  Taking  refuge 
in  an  empty  room,  she  crouched  down  in  an  armchair,  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  gave  full  vent  to  her 
misery. 

The  confused  sound  of  voices  in  the  adjoining  room  died  away 
by  degrees,  and  one  after  another  she  heard  the  carriages  come 
lip  to  the  door  and  then  drive  off,  until  every  one  had  left,  and 
total  silence  reigned  in  the  house.  In  it,  but  not  out  of  it ;  for 
the  storm  which  Janet  had  predicted  came  on,  and  a  heavy  fall 
of  rain  and  the  loud  crashing  of  thunder  soon  drove  from  poor 
Elinor  all  other  thoughts  and  fears.  Though  she  buried  her  head 
far  down  in  the  depths  of  the  cushioned  chair,  and  stopped  her 
ears  in  a  frenzy  of  alarm,  she  could  not  shut  out  the  prolonged 
rolls  that  seemed  to  shake  the  house ;  while  the  vivid  flashes  of 
lightning,  penetrating  through  the  coverings  she  had  thrown  over 
her,  made  her  quail  each  moment.  At  last,  however,  the  storm 
began  to  subside ;  but  then  came  fresh  images  of  fear.  That 
unconscious  helpless  form  she  had  seen,  the  pale  face  and  stained 
hair,  came  back  to  her  recollection.  What  she  had  said  and 
done  too  in  the  first  excitement  of  her  grief — the  secret  she  had 
betrayed — all  returned  to  lier  remembrance ;  and  apprehensions 
for  the  future,  mingling  with  present  fears,  caused  many  bursts 
of  tears  as  she  sat  alone  in  her  wretchedness.  How  long  she 
remained  there  she  did  not  know,  for  the  minutes  seemed  like 
hours ;  and  although  longing  to  have  her  suspense  ended,  she 
dreaded  too  much  the  confirmation  of  her  worst  fears  to  venture 
out  for  intelligence,  even  after  the  storm  was  passing  away. 

But  the  door  opened  at  length,  and  Isabel  came  in,  followed 
by  Percy ;  and  then  all  thoughts  for  herself  were  forgotten  in 
one  absorbing  fear  for  another,  and  she  started  up,  her  imploring 
look  speaking  volumes,  though  she  could  not  say  a  word. 

*  Arthur  is  not  dead,'  Percy  said  coldly,  in  answer  to  her 
beseeching  glance.  *  He  is  not  dead,  nor  as  far  as  we  know  ia 
he  in  any  danger.  He  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  has 
broken  his  arm,  and  cut  his  head  a  good  deal,  but  he  is  conscious 
again  now.     You  need  not  be  alarmed  about  him.' 

The  tones  were  frigid  in  the  extreme,  but  Elinor  hardly  heeded 


234  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

tliem.  She  burst  into  tears  once  more  ;  tears  of  relief  this  time, 
but  they  did  not  seem  to  call  forth  much  sympathy  on  his  part. 
He  stood  by  cold  and  unmoved,  waiting  until  she  should  recover 
herself.  Isabel,  too,  said  nothing,  and  from  her  countenance  it 
was  difficult  to  judge  what  her  feelings  were ;  but  the  silence  of 
both  appeared  to  strike  Elinor  at  last,  and  checking  her  tears, 
she  said  something  about  going,  and  began  to  move  towards  the 
door.     But  she  was  stopped  by  her  brother. 

*Not  just  yet.  Stay  a  few  minutes,  if  you  please;  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you.' 

Elinor  sat  down ;  she  was  trembling  so  much  that  she  could 
not  have  stood.  Her  colour  came  and  went,  but  she  did  not 
speak,  nor  did  she  notice  that  Percy  was  almost  as  much  agitated 
as  herself. 

'I  wished  to  speak  to  you,'  he  said  with  forced  calmness, 
*  because  I  am  afraid  there  has  been  a  great  mistake  somewhere. 
You  hardly  knew  before  what  you  were  saying ;  but,  Elinor,  I 
must  know  what  you  meant ;  whether  what  you  said  then  was 
true.     Is  there  anything  between  you  and  Arthur^' 

Elinor  was  silent ;  her  eye  went  round  the  room  uneasily,  as 
if  she  would  gladly  have  found  some  means  of  escape ;  but  he 
had  placed  himself  before  her,  and  it  was  plain  he  did  not  mean 
to  leave  her  without  an  answer. 

*  Percy,  you  are  not  kind,'  she  exclaimed  at  last  in  great 
agitation.  *  It  is  not  fair  of  you  to  take  advantage  of  what  I 
said  at  such  a  time,  and  try  to  force  my  secrets  from  me.' 

*  Elinor,  you  are  trifling,'  he  said  sternly.  *  Your  secret,  as 
you  call  it,  is  no  secret  now  to  any  one  who  heard  you.  You 
have  some  understanding  with  him.  What  is  it  ]  Or  has  he 
been  deceiving  you  as  well  as  others  1' 

'Deceiving  me!'  and  she  looked  up.  *  Arthur  deceive  me! 
No,  never  !     You  don't  know  him,  or  you  would  not  think  such 

a  thing.     He  loves  me  too  well  for  that.     He — I  mean ' 

She  stopped  short  in  confusion. 

*  If  he  has  not  deceived  you,  he  has  others ;  and  misled  them, 
too,'  he  said  in  a  low  bitter  tone  ;  and  then  rousing  suddenly  into 
anger,  '  But  what  has  he  said  to  you]     Let  me  hear  all' 

Elinor  burst  into  tears  again,  alarmed  at  his  tone.  'We 
meant  no  harm,'  she  sobbed.     '  We — we ' 

'  You  what  ]  What  have  you  been  doing  ]  Are  you  engaged 
to  him  V  still  more  fiercely. 


DISCLOSURES.  235 

She  sobbed,  but  made  no  answer. 

*  Elinor,  I  must  know.  Why  will  you  trifle  in  this  way  ?  Do 
you  mean  that  it  is  an  engagement  between  you  1 ' 

She  nodded.  ^  But,  O  Percy  ! '  going  ojff  into  another  flood 
of  tears,  *  don't  be  angry  with  him ;  don't  let  them  be  angry  with 
him  at  home.     He  meant  no  harm ;  it  was  only  for  a  time ' 

*  No  harm ! '  in  a  tone  of  great  bitterness. 

*  No,  indeed.  Was  it  wrong  ?  It  was  only  for  a  little  time, 
because  he  has  nothing  yet;  and  because — because  mamma  might 
not  have  liked  it.     She ' 

*  A  good  reason  for  doing  it,'  was  Percy's  remark  in  intense 
scorn.  *  Who  would  have  dreamed  of  a  sister  of  mine  acting  in 
such  a  way  ! '     He  turned  from  her  as  he  spoke. 

Another  burst  of  tears  from  Elinor.  '  She  would  have  been 
so  angry ;  Isabel,  you  know  she  would.  Won't  you  say  anything 
for  me  ? ' 

^  I  hate  deceit,'  was  all  the  answer  her  sister  vouchsafed.  She 
had  stood  like  a  statue  during  the  hearing  of  Elinor's  confession, 
but  in  that  moment  the  whole  extent  of  the  dreadful  mistake  she 
had  made,  and  of  the  cruel  injustice  she  had  done  her  cousin, 
flashed  upon  her ;  a  new  light  was  thrown  upon  everything  by 
those  few  words  wrung  from  Elinor.  Her  feelings  then  were  not 
to  be  envied. 

*  I  hate  deceit,'  she  repeated ;  and  Nelly  turned  from  her  in 
despair. 

*  You  won't  believe  me,'  she  said.  *  But  it  is  true.  It  was 
only  for  a  little  time  we  meant  to  keep  it  secret.  He  was  going 
to  have  told.  I  was  afraid  j  but  he  meant  to  do  it.  Indeed  he 
did.' 

*  He  would  have  told  !  But  why  did  he  not  tell  then  1 '  was 
Percy's  bitterly  indignant  answer.  ^  What  does  it  matter  what 
he  meant  to  do  ?  You  little  guess,  Elinor,  what  you  and  he 
have  done  between  you  ! '  His  voice  shook.  ^  Do  you  know,' 
he  went  on  passionately,  '  what  all  Gainsford  is  saying  of  him 
and  Lisa  1  Yes,  of  Lisa ;  what  I  have  heard  of  them — heard 
from  her  first  -/  and  there  was  a  look  at  Isabel  which  brought  the 
colour  to  her  face  and  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  ^  and  heard  from 
others  to-day  ;  this  evening  only.  And  I  believed  it  too ;  fool, 
madman  that  I  was  ! '     He  turned  away  again. 

Elinor  looked  at  him,  and  for  a  moment  her  sobs  ceased. 
*  Of  him  and  Lisa  !     What  has  Lisa  to  do  with  him  1 ' 


236  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY. 

Tliere  was  no  reply  from  Percy,  but  Isabel,  whose  colour  had 
faded  again,  and  who  had  resumed  her  usual  collected  manner, 
said  coldly — 

'  There  has  been  a  great  mistake  ;  we  have  all  been  deceived. 
Arthur  was  at  the  cottage  so  often  while  Percy  was  away  that  his 
visits  were  noticed.  You  know,  of  course,  what  he  went  for ;  so 
do  we  now\  But  ^ve  did  not  then.  You  meant  to  deceive  us, 
and  you  have  done  so  ;  but  you  have  brought  most  unjust  sus- 
picions upon  Lisa.' 

*  Ah,  you  confess  that  now,  Isabel,  do  you?'  Percy  said  more 
bitterly  than  ever.  *  You  own^  then,  that  she  has  not  been  so 
wrong  as  you  thought  her,  and  as  you  tried  to  make  me  think 
her.  As  I  did,  indeed.  Yes,  thanks  to  you,  I  have  doubted  and 
made  her  miserable.  Well,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  you  no  doubt. 
You  have  done  what  you  have  tried  to  do  ever  since  you  first 
knew  I  loved  her ;  and  you  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  you 
have  made  us  both  wretched.' 

*  Percy,  O  Percy  ! '  Her  voice  was  choked  ;  but  he  took  no 
more  heed  of  her  ;  he  turned  to  Elinor. 

'And  how  long  has  this  been  going  on  between  you  and 
Arthur  1     When  did  it  begin  ? ' 

Elinor  was  crying  again,  but  his  tone  showed  that  he  would 
not  be  put  off  without  an  answ^er. 

*  It  was  last  August,'  she  said  at  length  between  her  sobs.  *  I 
promised  him  then.  But — oh,  don't  be  angry  with  him,'  in 
imploring  accents. 

*  Angry  with  him  !  Much  he  would  care  for  my  anger  ! '  was 
the  reply.  *  No,  I  leave  that  to  my  father.  I  have  other  things 
to  think  of  now,  and  what  you  and  he  have  chosen  to  do  is  nothing 
to  me,  except  in  as  far  as  Lisa  is  concerned  ;  for  her  sake  I  mean 
to  hear  everything.     She  knew  of  your  engagement,  I  suppose]' 

'  Not  at  first,'  in  the  midst  of  more  sobs. 

*  Not  at  first !  Not  last  year,  you  mean.  But  she  knew  of 
it  while  you  were  at  the  cottage  1 ' 

*  No,  she  didn't — not  till — till  the  day  you  came  home.  She 
found  it  out  then.' 

*  Only  then  !  And  when  he  was  there  every  day  !  What  did 
she  think  he  went  for  1 ' 

Elinor  grew  very  red.  ^  I  don't  think  she  knew  he  came  at 
all,'  she  said  at  last  in  confusion.  *  She  often  used  to  go  and 
see  the  child  that  she  is  so  fond  of,  and — and' >■ 


DISCLOSURES.  237 

'  He  watched  her  out  of  the  house,  I  suppose.  Go  on/  said 
Pepcy,  in  undisguised  contempt. 

*  I  don't  know  what  else  there  is  to  tell,'  said  Elinor,  crying 
again.     *  She  found  it  out,  that  is  all.' 

*  And  said  nothing  ? ' 

Elinor  hesitated.  *  She  wanted  us  to  tell,  and — and  Arthur 
said  he  would.  He  meant  to  have  done  so  ;  only  I  was  ill,  and 
she  promised  then  to  wait ;  she  said  she  would  wait  till  I  got 
well.' 

*  And  you  let  her  sacrifice  herself  to  you,  then  ?  To  save 
yourselves  a  little  longer  from  blame,  you  could  allow  her  to  be 
exposed  to  most  unjust  suspicions.  My  poor  little  Lisa  ! '  in  a 
tone  of  intense  anguish. 

*  We  didn't  know  it/  Elinor  exclaimed.  ^  How  could  we 
tell  any  one  was  suspecting  her  1  We  should  have  told  long  ago 
if  we  had  thought  that ;  or  if  it  would  have  been  of  any  use. 
But  what  was  the  good  of  speaking  when  we  knew  that 
mamma ' 

Percy  turned  upon  her  in  scorn.  *  What  was  the  good  ?  Yoic 
to  say  such  a  thing  as  that,  Elinor  1  If  you  would  know,  though, 
the  good  that  fair  and  open  dealing  would  have  done  in  this 
case,  I  can  soon  tell  you.  You  would  have  saved  Lisa  from  the 
worst  suspicions  that  can  come  on  any  woman.  You  would  have 
saved  her  from  the  pain  and  misery  of  being  doubted  by  one 
who  ought  to  have  trusted  her  most ;  and  you  would  have  saved 
me  from  a  world  of  self-reproach  !  My  little  Lisa,  my  poor  child, 
how^  I  have  wronged  you  ! '  he  murmured  to  himself,  as  a  recol- 
lection of  that  evening's  scene — of  his  angry  words  and  cruel 
injustice,  came  back  with  overpowering  vividness ;  and  once 
more  that  cry,  which  he  had  heard  when  he  left  her,  rang  in  his 
ears.  He  had  not  heeded  it  then,  but  now  all  sorts  of  forebod- 
ings were  filling  his  mind. 

*  I  am  going  home,'  he  said.  *  Isabel,  you  were  ready  enough 
to  suspect  what  was  wrong ;  and  the  least  you  can  do  now  is  to 
see  things  made  right  again.  It  was  with  your  friends,  I  believe, 
that  these  false  reports  originated,  and  I  shall  look  to  you  to 
contradict  them.  My  wife  shall  not  be  spoken  of  again  as  she 
has  been.' 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  and  without  even  another  look 
at  Elinor,  who  sat  with  her  face  covered,  ho  left  the  room. 


238  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTEH  XXXV. 

A    HASTY    SUMMONS. 

*  From  tlie  station,  miss/  said  a  servant  at  tiie  Priory  the  next 
morning,  laying  a  letter  before  Mary  on  the  breakfast-table.  It 
was  a  telegraphic  message  of  one  line  only ;  an  entreaty  from 
Percy  that  she  would  come  at  once.  Lisa  was  ill — dying  they 
thought. 

Mary  started  up ;  her  eye  falling  on  another  letter  which  had 
come  by  the  regular  morning's  post  only  a  few  minutes  before — 
a  long  letter  in  Lisa's  handwriting ;  one  of  her  half-weekly  bud- 
gets, full  of  news,  and  bright  and  cheerful  as  usual ;  although, 
and  Mary  remembered  it  now  with  a  pang,  some  of  her  latter 
ones  had  not  been  so  bright  as  formerly  ;  she  had  fancied  their 
tone  was  not  so  light-hearted  as  it  had  been.  Could  there  have 
been  anything  kept  back  from  her  ?  Or  what  had  happened  to 
bring  about  the  catastrophe  that  caused  that  hasty  summons  1 

*  What  has  Lisa  been  doing  V  was  Mrs  Tennent's  comment  as 
she  read  the  message.  *  Something  imprudent,  you  may  be  quite 
sure.  And  what  was  Percy  about,  too,  not  to  look  after  her  1 
he  might  have  known  better,  if  she  did  not.  You  are  going, 
Mary,  I  suppose  1 ' 

*  Yes,  oh  yes,'  and  Mary  started.      I  wish ' she  looked  at 

her  father. 

'  You  wish  I  could  go  too,'  he  said,  reading  her  look  aright. 

*  And  I  was  thinking  the  same  myself.    I  am  not  busy  just  now; 

I  could  spare  a  day  or  two ' He  thought  for  a  minute  or 

two ;  Mary  watching  him  anxiously. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait  for  his  decision.  He  would  have 
sacrificed  much  for  the  little  niece  of  whom  he  was  so  fond ;  but 
as  it  happened,  there  really  was  little  at  that  time  to  keep  him  at 
home.  The  few  patients  about  whom  he  was  anxious  could  be 
given  over  to  a  friend ;  and  other  arrangements  being  made,  in 
less  than  an  hour  after  the  message  had  been  received,  he  and  Mary 
were  seated  in  the  first  up-train  to  London.  It  was  a  long  jour- 
ney in  the  heat  and  dust  of  that  summer's  day ;  but  long  and 


A  HASTY  SUMMONS.  239 

wearing  as  it  was,  its  discomforts  were  thought  nothing  of  in 
comparison  with  a  delay  which  took  place  in  town.  Their  train 
from  the  north  was  behind  its  time,  and  in  spite  of  a  furious 
drive  across  London  they  reached  the  other  terminus  one  minute 
too  late ;  the  Gainsford  train  had  just  left  the  station  as  they 
drove  up  to  it.  When  was  the  next  1  Not  for  two  hours ;  and 
Mary  looked  after  the  fast  receding  line  of  carriages,  and  for  the 
first  time  burst  into  tears.  As  long  as  they  had  been  moving ; 
as  long  as  she  had  felt  she  was  on  her  way  to  Lisa,  she  had 
seemed  to  have  no  time  for  thought ;  but  now,  what  might  not 
that  long  delay  do  1  She  sat  down  in  the  waiting-room,  hope- 
less and  dejected ;  while  her  father  fumed  and  chafed,  and 
spent  their  two  hours  of  waiting  in  abusing  the  railway  authori- 
ties. 

They  were  ofif  again  at  length,  however;  and  some  hours  more 
brought  them  to  Gainsford,  where  they  took  a  carriage  and  drove 
at  once  to  the  cottage.  The  day  was  closing  in  then,  and  twi- 
light was  fast  merging  into  night ;  the  heat  had  passed  away, 
and  the  evening  breeze  was  once  more  freshening  the  air.  There 
was  no  one  to  meet  them,  and  the  place  was  so  quiet  and  looked 
so  desolate,  that  it  struck  a  cold  chill  upon  both  of  them,  as  they 
made  their  way  up  to  the  front  door  and  rang  the  bell. 

They  had  to  ring  twice  before  it  was  answered;  but  after 
waiting  some  time  a  light  appeared  in  the  hall,  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  servant,  who  looked  out  eagerly.  It  was  Lane,  and 
when  she  caught  sight  of  Mary,  who  was  the  first  to  enter,  she 
uttered  an  exclamation,  '  0  Miss  Mary !'  and  burst  into  tears. 

Mary's  heart  failed  her,  and  she  gasped  for  breath.  ^  We  are 
not  too  late,  are  we  1     Oh,  don't  tell  me  that.' 

She  looked  very  white,  and  Lane,  alarmed,  pushed  a  chair  to- 
wards her,  and  made  her  sit  down,  while  she  took  off  her  bonnet 
in  the  old  peremptory  manner  that  Mary  knew  so  well. 

*  We  are  not  too  late  V  she  repeated,  when  she  could  speak 
again ;  and  Lane  shook  her  head,  the  tears  still  running  down 
her  face. 

*  But  she  won't  get  over  it,  Miss  Mary.  I  heard  them  say 
they  had  no  hope  of  saving  her.  The  Major  is  just  out  of  his 
mind  like,  and  no  wonder,  for  it 's  his  doing.'  She  spoke  with 
a  vehemence  that  startled  both  her  auditors.  *  There  are  two 
doctors  with  her,  and  they  Ve  sent  for  another  now.  We  didn't 
know  you  were  coming,  sir.'     And  Lane,  whose  faith  in  her  old 


240  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

master  was  very  strong,  looked  as  if  she  had  something  like  ho^^e 
again.     '  I  '11  tell  the  Major  you  're  here,  sir,  shall  1 1 ' 

*  Yes — no;  never  mind,  I'll  go  iip-stairs  at  once,'  was  the 
hasty  answer ;  and  Dr  Tennent  strode  np  the  stairs,  and  Mary 
was  left  alone  in  the  hall. 

She  did  not  stay  there,  however ;  she  opened  the  door  of  an 
adjoining  room,  and  finding  it  empty,  took  off  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  to  wait  till  some  one  should 
come.  Sick  at  heart,  she  sat  looking  with  sad  and  tearful  eyes 
upon  all  the  things  around  her.  She  knew  them  all — every 
article  of  furniture,  every  little  ornament ;  the  books,  the  flowers, 
the  cages  of  foreign  birds,  the  drawings  on  the  walls — the  whole 
aspect  of  the  place  was  familiar  to  her,  so  often  had  Lisa  de- 
scribed it  in  her  letters,  that  she  might  feel  at  home,  she  said, 
when  she  came  to  stay  there  on  that  happy  visit  for  which  so 
much  had  been  planned,  and  to  which  they  had  both  looked  for- 
ward so  long.  She  was  there  now ;  but  how  different  every- 
thing was  from  what  they  had  ever  imagined  it  would  be ! 

The  room  was  in  confusion,  as  it  had  been  left  the  night  be- 
fore. The  piano  stood  open,  and  some  music  had  fallen  from  it, 
and  lay  scattered  on  the  floor ;  papers  on  the  writing-table  were 
in  disorder,  the  flowers  in  the  vases  were  drooping,  and  dust  was 
on  the  books  and  ornaments  upon  the  table.  There  stood  Lisa's 
open  work-box,  too,  with  her  thimble  and  cotton  beside  it,  her 
scissors  on  the  ground ;  while  on  the  sofa  where  Mary  sat  was 
the  little  frock  she  had  meant  to  finish,  but  which  had  never 
received  its  last  stitches.  There  were  tears  in  Mary's  eyes  as 
she  took  it  up  to  look  at  it ;  and  a  bitter  pang  was  in  her  heart 
at  the  thought  that  it  might  never  be  wanted  now — that  the 
fingers,  too,  which  had  been  so  busy  with  it,  might  soon  have 
done  with  work  for  ever. 

With  a  heavy  sigh  she  laid  it  down  again,  and  as  she  did  so, 
the  opening  of  a  door  behind  her  made  her  turn.  It  was  her 
brother  who  entered,  but  so  changed  did  he  look,  so  worn  and 
aged  by  suspense  and  bitter  self-reproach,  that  had  it  not  been 
for  his  tall  figure,  she  might  in  the  dim  light  almost  have  failed 
to  recognise  him.  He  did  not  speak,  but  she  started  up  and 
sprang  to  meet  him,  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her 
tight ;  though  for  a  long  time  not  a  word  was  said  by  either. 
He  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

*  Thank  you  for  coming,  Mary,'  he  said ;  ^  I  knew  you  would.* 


A  HASTY  SUMMONS.  241 

His  voice  sounded  strangely  unnatural,  and  tears  dimmed  her 
eyes  again  at  the  sound  of  it;  but  she  remembered  she  was  there 
to  comfort,  not  to  give  way  to  her  own  grief,  and  with  a  strong 
effort  recovered  herself. 

*I  am  so  glad  you  sent  for  me,'  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
cheerfully.  ^  I  can  be  with  you  as  long  as  you  want  me.'  She 
paused  for  a  moment.  '  Dear  Percy,  she  will  get  over  it — you 
must  not  give  up  hope.' 

There  was  no  answer.  He  put  her  from  him,  and  for  several 
ninutes  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  silence,  but  the  work- 
ings of  his  face  told  fearful  tales  of  the  anguish  within.  He 
stopped  at  length  and  said  abruptly — 

*  You  don't  know  that  it  was  my  doing,  Mary  1  Yes,'  as  she 
looked  at  him,  *  mine — mine,  who  loved  her  more  than  words 
can  tell ;  who  would  have  died  to  save  her  from  harm.  I  have 
done  it  all.  You  did  not  know  that,  or  you  would  not  tell  me 
to  hope.  You  would  say  I  deserve  the  worst  that  can  come 
upon  me.' 

He  turned  away  again,  but  Mary  followed  him,  and  put  her 
arm  in  his. 

*  If  it  has  been  your  doing,  Percy,  it  has  not  been  your  fault, 
I  am  sure.  No  one  who  knows  you  would  believe  that  for  one 
moment.' 

*  Would  they  not]'  he  exclaimed  in  great  bitterness.  'No, 
perhaps  not.  I  should  not  have  believed  it  myself  yesterday ; 
but  it  is  true  for  all  that.  It  is  my  fault  from  beginning  to  end, 
my  miserable  anger  and  jealousy  have  done  it  all.  Lisa,  my 
darling,  I  deserve  to  lose  you ;  and  I  shall.' 

He  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  :  and  for 
some  minutes  Mary  could  only  stand  by  him  in  silent  grief,  her 
tears  falling  fast;  but  there  were  none  from  him. 

'  It  was  not  only  last  night,'  he  went  on  after  a  time.  '  It  has 
been  the  work  of  days.  Has  she  never  said  anything  to  you 
about  it,  Mary  %  Has  she  never  told  you  how  harsh  I  have  been 
to  her  lately,  poor  child  %  But  no,  of  course  she  has  not ;  she 
would  never  say  a  word  against  me.  It  is  torture  to  me  now  to 
think  of  it ;  but  I  did  not  understand  then.' 

*  It  was  some  mistake,  I  suppose,'  Mary  said  gently.  *  How 
was  it,  Percy  %  I  am  sure  you  must  be  blaming  yourself  too 
much.' 

*  What,  for  my  cruelty  to  her !     Blame  myself  too  much  for 

Q 


242  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

that !  Impossible  !  You  don't  know  all — all  I  said,  and  did. 
But  I  was  deceived — wretchedly  deceived/  He  started,  as  some 
sound  from  above  reached  them;  and  for  some  minutes  he 
paused,  and  listened  with  a  look  of  such  misery  as  went  to 
Mary's  heart  to  see ;  and  then  he  rose  and  paced  the  room  again, 
as  if  in  that  way  he  would  have  worked  off  his  suspense  and 
agitation. 

*Yes,  I  was  deceived;  it  was  Arthur's  doing.  I  thought — 
Mary,  you  had  no  idea,  had  you,  that  he  and  Elinor  were 
engaged  ?' 

'  Engaged  1  Arthur  !  Nelly  I  What  can  you  mean  ?  Im- 
possible !' 

*  Is  it  ?  Impossible  or  not,  it  is  true  ;  and  it  was  that  misled 
me,  and  others  too.  They  kept  their  secret  so  well  that  no  one 
had  any  suspicion  of  what  they  were  about.  And  I  heard  he 
had  been  here  so  often  while  I  was  away  those  three  weeks, 
that  I  mistook  his  motives.  Ah,  Mary,  you  may  well  look  at 
me  !  You  think  I  might  have  known  better,  that  I  might  have 
trusted  her.     But  I  did  not,  and  this  is  the  end  of  it.' 

Mary  was  silent  ^  too  much  shocked  at  first  to  make  any  reply. 

*  Are  you  sure  it  is  true  1 '  she  said  at  last ;  *  about  Arthur  and 
Nelly,  I  mean?  It  seems  impossible.  I  can't  believe  it  of 
them.' 

*  Nor  any  one  else ;  but  it  is  true.  Elinor  told  me  herself. 
Arthur  had  an  accident  last  night — was  thrown  from  his  horse, 
and  in  her  fright  she  let  out  more  than  she  meant.  I  made  her 
tell  me  all  afterwards ;  how  they  had  been  engaged  since^  last 
August,  and  how  Arthur — ah,  well,  never  mind  how  it  was ;  you 
will  hear  it  from  others,  and  it  maddens  me  to  think  of  it.  It 
is  enough  that  it  came  out  too  late.  I  had  been  with  Lisa  not 
long  before,  had  reproached  her  with  things  she  had  never  done, 
never  even  dreamed  of,  poor  child  !  And  I  had  left  her  without 
giving  her  time  for  one  word  of  explanation.  It  is  agony  now 
to  me  to  think  of  it,  for  I  might  have  stayed ;  I  might  have 
listened  to  what  she  had  to  say.  But  I  left  her ;  and  now — 
Mary,  it  is  more  than  I  can  bear !  I  would  not  care  for  the 
child;  that  might  go  —  but  Lisa,  my  little  Lisa,  I  can't 
lose  her !' 

His  face  was  hidden  again,  but  his  tone  betrayed  intensity  of 
anguish ;  and  Mary  paused,  unnerved  by  the  sight  of  grief,  such 
as  she  had  never  witnessed  before.     She  could  only  stand  and 


A  NEW-COMER.  243 

watch  him  in  silent  sadness ;  while  he,  absorbed  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  own  feelings,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  presence — to 
have  forgotten  everything  indeed — until  there  came  some  sound 
again  from  above,  to  rouse  him  once  more  from  his  stupor ;  and 
then  he  resumed  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  that  ceaseless 
motion  only  he  could  find  relief  from  the  torture  that  was  racking 
him.  The  sadness  of  that  long  time  of  waiting,  who  could 
describe  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A  NEW-COMEE. 


Morning  was  breaking  in  the  east;  its  first  rays  of  crimson  were 
streaking  the  sky  and  beginning  to  find  their  reflection  on  the 
grey  sea ;  and  the  lamps,  which  at  the  cottage  all  night  long 
had  burned  bright  and  clear,  were  growing  dim  in  the  advancing 
light  of  day. 

In  a  room  adjoining  Lisa's  a  little  party  was  gathered,  and  the 
faint  glow  of  the  summer's  morning  fell  strangely  on  faces 
shadowed  with  grief  and  anxiety.  Percy  was  there,  worn  and 
haggard,  with  contracted  brow  and  absent  gaze,  as  if  he  hardly 
knew  what  was  passing.  Dr  Tennent,  too,  and  a  clergyman 
were  with  him,  and  by  their  side  was  Mary,  pale  and  weary- 
looking,  her  head  bent  down  over  a  little,  a  very  little  something 
that  she  held  in  her  arms — poor  Lisa's  seven-months'  baby. 
There  were  a  few  prayers  read,  some  water  was  sprinkled,  and 
then  she  took  back  the  wailing  unconscious  child  whom  she 
loved  already  for  its  mother's  sake,  and  tried  to  trace  in  its  tiny 
features  some  resemblance  to  that  young  mother  herself,  while 
she  sighed  to  think  how  much  the  happiness  which  it  would 
have  brought  at  any  other  time  was  saddened  and  over- 
clouded now. 


244  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

For  there  was  but  small  chance  of  saving  it,  the  doctors 
said ;  and  that  Lisa  lingered  seemed  matter  of  surprise  to  them. 
They  did  not  say  much,  but  Mary  felt,  and  knew  also  that  her 
brother  felt,  they  had  little  or  no  hope  ;  and  any  she  herself 
might  have  cherished  went  too  when  she  stood  in  the  darkened 
room  by  her  cousin's  side,  and  saw  the  shadowy  outline  of  the 
face  she  loved  so  well,  and  which  she  had  last  seen  in  all  its 
beauty,  when,  a  few  months  before,  they  had  parted  from  each 
other  at  the  Priory.  Yery  beautiful  it  was  still ;  but  its  beauty 
was  more  like  that  of  chiselled  marble  than  of  a  living  form;  and 
as  she  gazed  at  the  colourless  cheek,  the  closed  eyes,  and  the 
white  lips  half  parted,  as  if  they  had  opened  and  there  had  been 
no  strength  to  close  them,  she  could  have  fancied  she  was  watching 
beside  the  dead ;  while  the  contrast  between  that  still  and  silent 
helplessness  and  the  merry  laughing  girl  whom  she  had  always 
known,  brought  such  a  rush  of  overpowering  feelings  that  the 
fear  of  betraying  her  presence  by  a  burst  of  sorrow  made  her 
turn  away  and  take  refuge  in  her  own  room,  where  her  grief 
could  neither  be  seen  nor  heard.  She  need  not  have  been  afraid, 
however,  of  disturbing  her  cousin ;  for  Lisa  was  too  far  away  in 
the  world  of  unconsciousness  to  know  that  she  was  there.  She 
was  conscious  of  nothing — not  even  of  her  child ;  and  Perc}^ 
who  lingered  long  by  her  side,  was  unrecognised.  For  many 
hours  she  lay  between  life  and  death  ;  so  weak  that  every  breath 
she  drew  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  her  last,  and  so  still  that  the 
anxious  watchers  beside  her  often  feared  to  listen  lest  they  should 
find  she  was  really  gone.  The  suspense  of  that  long  weary  day 
was  dreadful,  and  appeared  almost  endless.  But  as  evening  came 
on,  she  struggled  back  once  more  to  life;  consciousness  returned, 
and  to  the  surprise  of  every  one  she  began  to  rally.  Her  first 
words  then,  though  she  was  unable  to  raise  her  voice  above  a 
whisper,  were  for  her  baby ;  and  when  Mary  brought  it,  and  laid 
it  beside  her,  her  fiice  lighted  up,  and  a  strange  smile  of  almost 
unearthly  beauty  for  a  moment  played  over  it.  Mary  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

*You  are  better,  dearest;  thank  God  for  it,'  she  said,  her 
voice  faltering  with  the  joy  of  rekindled  hope. 

Lisa  looked  at  her — a  long  wistful  look,  as  if  she  would  have 
liked  to  speak,  but  the  strength  to  do  so  Avas  wanting ;  and  even 
the  smile  with  which  she  tried  to  welcome  her  died  away.  It 
was  checked,  for  her  eye  fell  upon  Percy,  who  during  her  long 


A  NEW-COMER.  245 

unconsciousness  Lad  never  left  her  side,  and  who  had  risen  now, 
and  was  waiting,  longing  for  her  first  word — her  first  glance. 
But  he  had  not  expected  the  change  which  the  sight  of  him 
brought.  She  was  agitated  at  once  beyond  all  control,  and 
trembled  so  violently  that  Dr  Tennent  was  alarmed,  not  without 
reason,  and  told  him  peremptorily  to  leave  the  room. 

*  Not  one  word  ?  Won't  you  let  me  say  one  word  to  her — only 
one  ] '  Percy  entreated,  almost  heart-broken  at  this  command ; 
but  his  father  was  inexorable. 

*  Not  one,  unless  you  wish  to  kill  her.  Don't  you  see  how 
terrified  she  is  1 ' 

Yes,  it  was  only  too  true,  she  was  afraid  of  him ;  the  little  wife 
whom  he  had  sworn  to  love  and  cherish  was  terrified  at  his  pre- 
sence ;  and,  to  save  her  life,  he  must  leave  her  without  a  word  of 
any  kind,  without  asking  for  the  forgiveness  for  which  he  yearned. 
His  punishment  was  full  indeed  he  felt ;  and  with  a  look  of  utter 
misery  on  his  face,  he  went  away  to  spend  the  next  long  hours 
alone,  with  a  burden  of  self-reproach  and  suspense  upon  him  that 
was  well-nigh  intolerable.  He  never  thought  of  rest,  and  although 
it  was  the  third  night  he  had  been  up,  and  he  knew  well  enough, 
only  too  bitterly,  that  he  could  be  of  no  use,  he  could  not  rest, 
but  passed  his  time  as  he  had  done  before  in  weary  pacings  to 
and  fro — the  long  monotony  of  the  hours  being  only  broken  by 
occasional  visits  from  Mary,  who  stole  down- stairs  at  times  to 
say  a  few  words  and  try  to  cheer  him.  It  was  not  till  day  was 
once  more  dav>^ning,  and  his  father  himself  came  down  to  tell  of 
the  improvement  which  each  hour  w^as  bringing,  that  anything 
like  hope  seemed  to  dawn  in  his  mind.  When  it  did  come,  when 
he  heard  that  although  there  was  still  danger,  yet  with  care  there 
was  a  possibility  of  her  recovery,  then  the  wrought-up  feelings 
of  those  days  of  suspense  and  despair  gave  way,  and,  completely 
unmanned,  he  burst  into  tears.  Burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
he  cried  like  a  child,  while  Dr  Tennent  stood  by,  looking  as  if 
he  found  it  hard  not  to  follow  his  example.  He  had  come  down 
intending  to  speak  his  mind  very  plainly  on  what  had  happened, 
and  meaning  to  blame  his  son  most  severely  for  having,  by  his 
anger  and  harshness,  endangered  his  wife's  life ;  but  he  forgot  to 
do  so  now,  and  after  taking  several  turns  to  work  off  his 
agitation,  came  up  to  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

'  Come,  come,  Pqrcy,  you  must  not  give  way  like  that,'  he  said 


246  ATHBRSTONE  PRIORY. 

kindly.  '  She  will  do  now,  I  have  no  doubt ;  you  must  not  dis- 
tress yourself  so  much.  You  have  kept  up  so  far,  and  you  must 
keep  up  a  little  longer.  She  will  be  spared  to  you,  I  hope ; 
and,'  he  added  gravely,  *  you  must  take  more  care  of  her  for 
the  future.* 

The  touch  and  words  recalled  Percy  to  himself ;  and  ashamed 
of  the  weakness  he  had  been  betraying,  even  though  it  were  only 
to  his  own  father,  he  made  a  strong  effort  to  regain  self-control, 
and  rose  from  his  seat,  muttering  something  which  sounded  like 
an  apology. 

'  You  don't  know  what  it  has  been  to  me.  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  so  long  for  the  worst,  I  had  so  little  hope  at  any  time 
that ' And  once  more  he  broke  down. 

'  Yes,  I  understand.  But  the  worst  is  over  now,  I  trust.  I 
have  great  hope  for  her.  She  will  want  the  greatest  care  though, 
and  must  be  kept  perfectly  quiet.  You  must  make  no  attempt 
to  see  her  for  the  present,  or  I  will  not  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences. You  saw  how  agitated  she  was  at  the  sight  of  you,  and 
you  must  keep  out  of  her  way  for  some  days  at  least.  It  is  your 
own  fault,  you  must  remember  that,'  added  the  doctor,  suddenly 
recollecting  the  lecture  he  meant  to  have  given,  and  beginning 
to  look  very  severe. 

'  Yes,  I  know  it,'  humbly  and  sadly,  and  with  a  long  sigh. 
*  You  can't  blame  me  more  than  I  blame  myself ;  God  knows  I 
have  been  bitterly  punished  for  it.  You  cannot  guess  what  I 
have  gone  through  the  last  three  days.'  And  then  after  a  few 
moments'  silence,  he  said  wistfully,  *  May  I  not  see  her  sometimes, 
if  she  does  not  see  me?  I  won't  attempt  to  speak  till  you  give 
me  leave ;  but  surely  I  may  look  at  her  now  and  then.' 

Dr  Tennent,  however,  would  make  no  promise ;  he  would  have 
no  risks  run,  he  said ;  and  he  added  so  much  about  the  danger  of 
excitement,  that  Percy  did  not  try  to  urge  his  request.  He  was 
worn  out  too,  and  now  that  relief  from  suspense  was  come,  and 
the  strain  which  had  kept  him  up  was  over,  he  felt  how  exhausted 
he  was.  Flinging  himself  down  just  as  he  was  upon  the  drawing- 
room  sofa,  in  less  than  half  a  minute  weariness  and  grief  were 
forgotten  in  the  soundest  of  slumbers. 

Dr  Tennent's  anger,  when  he  first  heard  full  particulars  of 
the  deception  Arthur  and  Elinor  had  practised,  was  very  great. 
When  he  came  to  learn  everything — the  length  of  time  they 
had  kept  their  secret,  the  advantage  they  had  taken  of  Percy's 


A  NEW-COMER.  247 

absence  and  Lisa's  ignorance,  and  the  unjust  suspicions  their 
underhand  dealing  had  brought  upon  their  cousin — he  was  indig- 
nant beyond  measure.  No  one  ever  remembered  having  seen 
him  so  angry  as  he  was  then.  Arthur  should  never  enter  the 
Priory  again,  he  said ;  he  would  have  no  one  there  whom  he 
could  not  trust ;  and  as  for  the  engagement  itself,  if  they  had 
ever  chosen  to  consider  it  one,  it  was  at  an  end.  He  would  never 
give  his  consent  to  his  daughter's  marrying  a  man  who  could  lead 
her  to  deceive  her  parents ;  he  should  take  her  back  with  him  to 
Atherstone,  and  she  might  consider  she  had  done  with  Arthur 
for  ever. 

And  although  the  doctor,  if  he  had  stood  alone,  would  most 
probably  have  softened  down  and  forgotten  his  displeasure  after 
a  time,  yet  every  one  knew  this  would  not  be  the  case  with  Mrs 
Tennent.  When,  that  same  afternoon,  her  father  went  up  to 
Lassell  Lodge  to  see  Elinor,  and  she  heard  she  was  to  return 
home  with  him,  she  received  the  decision  as  a  deathblow  to  all 
the  hopes  she  had  entertained  of  the  past  being  forgiven,  and  her 
engagement  being  sanctioned  by  her  parents.  She  was  in  a  state 
of  prostrate  despair,  and  in  floods  of  tears;  and  perhaps  she 
could  hardly  have  chosen  any  more  effectual  way  of  mollifying  Dr 
Tennent.  If  she  had  made  excuses,  or  attempted  to  justify  her- 
self, his  anger  might  have  held  out;  but  when  she  stood  in 
silence,  looking  so  helpless  and  forlorn,  and  crying  so  very  bit- 
terly, there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  say  his  say  as  quickly 
as  possible,  and  then,  in  fear  of  what  his  wife's  displeasure  might 
be  if  he  allowed  himself  to  be  worked  upon  through  his  softer 
feelings,  beat  a  retreat  with  more  precipitation  than  was  con- 
sistent with  his  dignity  as  father  of  a  family. 

Poor  Elinor's  position  at  that  time  was  anything  but  enviable. 
The  full  weight  of  everybody's  displeasure  fell  upon  her;  for 
Arthur,  although  not  in  actual  danger,  had  so  much  fever  about 
him,  that  it  was  necessary  to  keep  clear  of  all  exciting  subjects ; 
and  he  was,  in  consequence,  in  total  ignorance  of  all  that  had 
taken  place  during  the  last  few  days.  Cut  off  from  all  inter- 
course with  him,  she  felt  the  separation  bitterly,  for  the  whole 
love  of  her  clinging,  twining  nature,  had  been  given  to  him ; 
while  Janet's  reproaches  and  Isabel's  silent  coldness  added  keen 
poignancy  to  her  fears  and  sorrow. 

A  few  days  later  she  left  Gainsford.  Dr  Tennent  found  Lisa 
was  going  on  well  enough  for  him  to  leave  her,  and  he  was 


248  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

wanted  at  Atherstone  again.  He  went  away,  therefore,  taking 
Elinor  with  him ;  and  a  long  sad  look,  that  was  raised  to  Arthur's 
window  as  they  drove  off,  was  her  last  good-bye  for  many  years 
to  Lassell  Lodge  and  the  companion  of  her  childhood. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

PAST   AND    FUTURE. 


It  was  some  days  after  his  father  went  before  Percy  was  allowed 
to  see  Lisa.  Her  state  was  long  sufficiently  precarious  to  cause 
extreme  anxiety  to  those  about  her,  and  make  it  absolutely 
necessary  to  avoid  everything  that  could  agitate  her.  That  her 
husband's  presence  would  be  likely  to  do  so  no  one  could  fail 
to  observe,  for  she  never  heard  his  voice  or  step,  however  distant, 
without  trembling ;  and  even  the  mention  of  his  name  made  her 
change  colour,  and  brought  such  a  frightened  beseeching  look 
into  her  eyes  that  any  subject  which  had  reference  to  him  was 
obliged  to  be  hastily  dropped.  That  Percy  had  given  her  only 
too  good  reason  to  fear  him  was  the  impression  produced  on 
every  one,  and  great  was  the  indignation  felt  against  him  in 
consequence ;  and  when  she  was  considered  strong  enough  to 
bear  a  visit  from  him,  the  doctor  thought  it  needful  to  give  him 
many  severe  cautions  as  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  clear  of 
disagreeable  topics.  The  words  were  listened  to,  but  they  were 
scarcely  heard,  and  certainly  not  resented.  All  that  Percy  took 
in  was,  that  those  next  ten  minutes  were  to  be  very  precious  to 
him  j  and  before  Dr  Mapleston  had  half  finished  what  he  meant 
to  say,  he  strode  away  up-stairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  was 
in  his  wife's  room. 

Poor  Lisa  was  lying  back  upon  her  pillows  with  her  baby  on 
her  arm ;  her  young  face  very  wan  and  white,  and  a  troubled 


PAST  AND  FUTURE.  249 

expression  on  it  which  was  most  painful  to  see.  She  raised  her 
eyes  when  he  entered  and  looked  at  him  longingly,  wistfully, 
but  she  did  not  speak ;  and  that  sad  gaze  cut  him  to  the  heart. 
It  told  a  tale  of  such  wrong  on  his  part,  such  silent  suffering  on 
hers.  For  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute,  and  then  the  little  he 
had  heard  of  Dr  Mapleston's  cautions  was  forgotten.  He  crossed 
the  room  and  knelt  down  by  her  side. 

'  Lisa,  my  darling,  I  have  been  very  harsh — very  unjust  to 
you.     Can  you  ever  forgive  me  1 ' 

Lisa's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly.  For  some  moments  she 
looked  confused  and  startled,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  she 
said  at  last — 

*  Forgive  you,  Percy  1  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  It 
was  you  who  had  to  forgive,  I  thought ;  you  were  angry  with 
me,  you  know.* 

*  Yes,  I  know  it ; '  and  a  shadow  crossed  his  face.  '  1  know 
it,  Lisa,  and  that  is  why  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  j  for  I  was 
wrong.  I  was  harsh  and  cruel  to  you,  my  dearest  and  best.  I 
listened  to  what  others  told  me — never  mind  what  it  was  now — 
but  I  wronged  you.     Lisa,  will  you  forgive  me  *?  * 

It  was  said  imploringly,  but  once  more  he  had  to  wait  for  an 
answer.  But  as  his  meaning  appeared  to  break  upon  her,  and 
the  fear  of  his  displeasure,  which  had  evidently  been  hanging 
over  her,  began  to  pass  away,  the  troubled  look  passed  from  her 
face  also ;  and  when  he  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his,  and,  look- 
ing at  her  beseechingly,  asked  again  for  the  forgiveness  for  which 
he  was  yearning,  the  smile  that  broke  upon  her  face  was  like 
sudden  sunlight. 

*  Forgive  you  !     Ah,  Percy,  how  can  you  talk  like  that  1 ' 
'  Won  t  you,  my  darling  1 ' 

*  No,'  she  said,  in  her  own  old  way  ;  ^  because  there  is  nothing 
— nothing  for  me  to  forgive.  O  Percy,  how  can  you  say  such  things ! 
It  isn't  right,  and  I  don't  like  to  hear  them.  It  sounds  as  if 
you  had  been  wrong.' 

'  And  so  I  have ;  very  wrong,  Lisa ;  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
own  it.  I  have  done  you  more  wrong  than  I  can  ever  repair. 
It  is  no  matter  that  I  was  deceived — misled  by  others.  Nothing 
could  excuse  my  cruel  violence  to  you  that  night.  Ah,  Lisa,  I 
was  bitterly  punished  for  it  when  I  thought  I  was  losing  you ; 
you  don't  know — you  never  can  know — half  the  misery  of  that 
time.     Thank  God,  you  are  spared  to  me  a  little  longer.     You 


250  ATHERSTONB  PRIORY. 

must  get  well,  my  darling ;  and  you  shall  see  how  happy  I  will 
make  you/ 

Lisa  smiled.  'You  can't  make  me  happier  than  I  am;  it  would 
be  impossible.  Dear  Percy,  you  were  always  so  very  kind  to 
me.  But  are  you  sure  there  is  nothing  now  ?  Are  you  really  not 
angry  with  me  any  longer  1 ' 

^  No,  my  darling,  no.  I  never  ought  to  have  been  angry  with 
you  at  ail.  Do  not  think  of  it  now,  dearest ;  leave  it  all,'  he 
added  hastily,  seeing  the  confused  painful  look  return  to  her 
face. 

'Yes;'  but  she  seemed  as  if  trying  to  remember  something. 
'  Do  you  know  everything  1 '  she  asked  wistfully.  *  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  all,  only ' 

*  T  know  it,  you  needn't  tell  me/  he  said,  alarmed  lest  she 
should  be  exciting  herself  too  much.  '  I  have  heard  everything. 
Elinor  told  me.' 

'  Did  she  ?  Poor  Nelly,  I  *m  so  sorry  for  her  !  And,  Percy, 
you  don't  think,  then,  I  was  wrong  1  I  didn't  understand  that 
night  why  you  were  angry  with  me;  but — ah,  those  terrible 
words ! '  and  she  shuddered.  '  You  didn't  mean  all  you  said 
then,  surely  1 ' 

She  was  beginning  to  tremble  again. 

*  Won't  you  forget  them,  Lisa  ? '  he  said  sorrowfully.  '  They 
were  cruel  and  unjust,  but  they  were  not  true.  Won't  you  be- 
lieve how  gladly  I  would  recal  them  if  I  could?  Don't  turn 
away  from  me,  dearest,  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me.  Won't  you 
look  at  me,  and  tell  me  you  will  forget  I  ever  said  them  1 ' 

Lisa  did  look  at  him,  and  with  a  smile.  '  I  '11  never  think  of 
them  again,  if  you  don't  wish  it — never  !  Why  should  1 1 
They  were  not  true,  you  say.' 

'  And  you  forgive  me  too  ? ' 

She  smiled  again.  '  Ah,  Percy,  we  don't  think  alike  about 
that.  You  had  a  right  to  be  angry,  you  know,  if  you  thought  me 
wrong.  I  can't  say  I  will  forgive,  when  there  really  is  nothing 
to  forgive.' 

'  But  there  is — a  great,  great  deal.  Lisa,  dear,  make  me 
happy  by  saying  that  one  word,  won't  you?' 

But  that  was  more  than  she  could  be  persuaded  to  do.  Her 
only  answer  was  to  throw  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  draw  him 
towards  her ;  though,  if  ever  kiss  told  of  perfect  love  and  for* 
giveness^  hers  did  then. 


PAST  AND  FUTURE.  251 

'  And  now  one  for  baby/  she  said,  looking  feverish  and  ex- 
hausted, but  very  happy.  '  You  have  hardly  seen  her  yet,  and 
she  is  such  a  darling !  Yes,  that  is  right ;  put  up  your  glass, 
and  then  you  will  know  her  again.  She  is  worth  looking  at, 
though  she  is  so  tiny.  She  is  very  pretty  ! '  in  great  admira- 
tion. 

But  when  she  looked  up  to  see  what  he  was  thinking  of  his 
little  daughter,  she  found  his  eyes  had  come  back  to  herself. 

'  Why,  Percy,  you  haven't  half  looked  at  her ! '  in  a  disap- 
pointed tone. 

^  Haven't  I.  But  then  I  have  seen  her  before,  you  know.* 
And  he  took  another  survey  of  his  child.  *  She  will  never  come 
up  to  you,  Lisa,'  was  the  result  of  that  second  inspection ;  and 
Lisa  looked  as  dissatisfied  as  before. 

*  I  think  her  very  pretty,  Percy,  and  I  'm  sorry  you  don't.  Per- 
haps you  will  by-and-by  when  you  have  seen  more  of  her.  Look 
what  a  pretty  nose  and  mouth  she  has,  and  what  long  eyelashes! 
And  her  eyes  !  You  can't  see  them  now,  because  she  is  so  fond 
of  keeping  them  shut ;  but  I  am  sure  you  will  think  them  beau- 
tiful when  you  do,  they  are  so  large  and  dark.  Oh,  she  is  really 
pretty,  very  pretty  indeed ;  not  at  all  like  the  babies  one  sees 
every  day.     And  I  am  so  very  happy  to  have  her  ! ' 

There  was  some  excitement  in  her  tones,  notwithstanding  their 
extreme  weakness ;  and  the  flush  upon  her  face  told  Percy  he 
had  stayed  quite  long  enough,  even  without  the  doctor's  warning 
knock,  which  was  heard  at  that  moment.  With  one  more  long 
kiss,  he  hurried  away  ;  afraid  lest  the  meeting  which  had  brought 
so  much  happiness  to  him  should  have  overtasked  her  small 
amount  of  returning  strength,  and  that  the  doctor's  next  report 
would  tell  of  a  falling  back  from  the  improvement  which  had  so 
long  been  anxiously  watched. 

But  his  fears  were  groundless.  Tired  out  she  certainly  was 
for  the  time ;  but  the  f everishness  of  fatigue  passed  away  with- 
out any  ill  consequences,  and  each  day  brought  fresh  signs  of 
improvement  and  new  hopes  to  those  about  her ;  hopes  which 
were  strengthened  by  her  own  return  to  the  bright  looks  and 
joyous  tones  of  former  days. 

*  You  seem  very  happy,  Lisa  dear,'  Mary  said  one  evening 
when  she  was  sitting  alone  with  her,  and  they  had  been  silent 
for  some  time.  ^  What  are  you  thinking  of  1  Something  plea- 
sant, I  am  sure,  by  your  face.' 


252  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Lisa  smiled.  ^  Yes,  I  was — all  sorts  of  pleasant  things.  I  was 
thinking  of  Percy  for  one,  and  how  good  he  is  to  me.  And  then 
I  was  thinking  of  this  dear  little  baby.  I  can  hardly  believe, 
Mary,  that  she  is  my  own,  my  very  own ;  to  do  what  I  like  with, 
and  to  take  care  of  and  love  as  long  as  she  lives.  And  no  one 
can  take  her  from  me,  can  they  1 '  she  added,  as  a  vision  of  for- 
feited dolls  and  other  lost  treasures,  the  pang  of  parting  with 
which  was  still  vividly  remembered,  returned  to  her  mind.  *  But, 
of  course,  they  can't,  because  she  is  really  mine.  Mine  and 
Percy's,  and  no  one  else  has  any  right  to  her.  And,  of  course, 
too,  it 's  silly  of  me  to  think  that  anybody  would  take  her  away, 
for  no  one  cares  for  her  half  so  much  as  I  do.  But  still  I  feel 
afraid  sometimes — she  is  such  a  darling.  I  think  of  her  so  much, 
Mary ;  and  when  I  fall  asleep  I  dream  about  her.  And  then 
when  I  wake  it  is  such  happiness  to  find  it  isn't  only  a  dream ; 
that  she  is  really  here,  the  most  darling,  the  dearest  little  thing 
that  ever  was.'     And  Lisa  kissed  her  baby  passionately. 

Mary  looked  at  her,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  there  was  an 
expression  of  deep  sadness  on  her  face.  The  little  thing  that 
lay  there  was  so  delicate  and  fragile,  and  seemed  so  unlikely 
to  need  a  mother's  care  long,  that  she  could  not  help  fearing 
poor  Lisa's  happiness  in  her  child  would  be  but  short-lived; 
and  it  gave  her  a  pang  to  see  how  much  she  was  wrapped 
up  in  it. 

*  I  always  wanted  something  to  pet,'  Lisa  said,  when  she  had 
nearly  smothered  her  baby  with  her  kisses ;  a  proceeding  which 
roused  that  young  lady  from  her  slumbers,  and  caused  a  good 
deal  of  hushing  before  she  could  be  persuaded  to  resume  them. 
'  I  always  wanted  something  to  pet,  and  I  never  used  to  have 
anything  for  very  long.  I  was  always  doing  something  wrong, 
and  then  Aunt  Helen  took  them  all  away.  She  took  everything 
away  I  ever  had  except  Prince.  Ah  !  how  glad  I  was  when 
Percy  gave  him  to  me.  But  a  baby,  Mary !  a  real  little  baby  of 
my  own.  Oh  !  she  is  far,  far  better  than  anything  else  !  How 
glad  I  shall  be  when  I  am  well  again,  and  able  to  do  everything 
for  her.  I  shall  never  find  it  lonely  now  when  Percy  is  away.  I 
did  before,  especially  on  field-days,  when  he  was  gone  for  so  very 
long ;  but  now  I  never  shall.  I  shall  wash  and  dress  her,  and 
take  her  out  walking,  and  do  everything  for  her  myself.  I  only 
hope  Percy  won't  be  jealous,'  she  added  with  a  smile,  *  and  fancy 
I  think  too  much  of  her.     Not  that  there  is  any  fear  of  that  j  for 


PAST  A^D  FUTURE.  253 

he  must  always  come  first.  Mary  ' — after  some  mimites'  silence 
— *you  are  taking  good  care  of  liim  while  I  am  up  here,  are  you 
not  1  He  seems  so  out  of  spirits  sometimes  that  I  am  afraid  he 
is  not  well.  He  quite  frightened  me  the  other  day,  he  looked  so 
i\V 

*  I  don't  think  he  is  ill/  Mary  said.  *  But  I  don't  wonder  at  his 
looking  so  worn  as  he  does,  after  all  the  anxiety  he  has  gone 
through.  It  was  terrible  to  see  him  when  you  were  in  such 
danger,  Lisa;  he  reproached  himself  so  much  with  being  the 
cause  of  it.' 

*  Poor  Percy,  he  couldn't  help  it,'  Lisa  exclaimed  sorrowfully. 

*  It  was  all  that  unfortunate  mistake.  But  now  he  need  never 
think  of  it  again ;  it  is  all  over,  and  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  we 
used  to  be.  Poor  Arthur  and  Nelly  too  !  I  am  so  sorry  for 
them.' 

She  lay  for  a  few  minutes  lost  in  thought,   and  then  added, 

*  Do  you  remember  our  talk  in  the  old  schoolroom  at  home,  Mary, 
the  day  before  I  was  married'?  I  want  to  show  you  now  what  a 
good  housekeeper  I  am,  and  how  well  I  can  manage  things.  Lane 
helps  me,  to  be  sure,  a  great  deal ;  but  still  I  think  I  am  getting 
on  by  degrees.  I  hope  so ;  for  I  do  try,  really.'  She  lowered 
lier  voice  a  little.  '  You  remember  what  you  said  to  me  that 
same  day  about  trying  in  the  right  way  1  I  don't  think  I  have 
forgotten  it ;  it  has  helped  me  very  often,'  and  she  looked  at  her 
cousin  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  ^  I  wonder  what  I  should  have 
done  without  you,  Marj^  You  have  always  helped  me  in  so 
many,  many  ways.  Do  you  know,  when  I  see  you  sitting  by 
my  side,  and  looking  so  exactly  as  you  used,  I  could  fancy  all 
those  old  times  had  come  back,  and  we  were  at  the  Priory  to- 
gether again.' 

Mary  smiled  too.  She  could  almost  have  fancied  the  same 
herself ;  so  unaltered  was  the  fair  girlish  face  before  her  ;  and  so 
unchanged  was  the  little  Lisa  of  former  days,  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  realise  the  fact  of  her  being  a  wife  and  mother.  She 
could  have  imagined  the  last  few  months  a  dream,  and  her  cousin 
still  the  child,  who  at  one  time  had  been  her  all-absorbing  care. 
For  some  minutes  she  sat  and  looked  at  her  in  silence  till  Lisa 
laid  her  hand  on  hers,  and  asked  her  what  she  was  sighing  for. 

*  Was  I  sighing  1  I  did  not  know  it.  But  I  was  thinking  of 
you,  Lisa;  washing,  I  believe,  that  you  were  my  child  again. 
How  happy  we  were  in  those  old  days  ! ' 


254  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  Very  ! '  and  Lisa  looked  at  her  cousin  gratefully.  *  How  kind 
you  were  to  me,  Mary  ! ' 

^  You  would  not  have  had  me  unkind,  would  you  ? '  said 
Mary,  with  a  laugh.  *  But,  my  dear  Lisa,'  she  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, *  what  have  you  done  to  your  arm  ?  When  did  you  hurt 
yourself  in  that  way?'  She  pointed  to  her  wrist^  which  had 
evidently  been  much  hurt ;  and  which,  although  the  heavy  bruises 
that  had  discoloured  it  were  fading  away,  still  looked  dark  and 
swollen. 

Lisa  coloured  deeply,  and  hastily  drew  down  her  sleeve. 

'  It  was  an  accident,'  she  said.  *  It 's  nothing.  I  don't  feel  it 
now.' 

'  But  how  did  you  do  it,  and  why  have  you  never  said  any- 
thing about  it  1     It  must  have  pained  you  very  much.' 

*  Did  it  1  I  don't  remember.  There  have  been  other  things 
so  much  worse  that  I  've  forgotten.  It  will  be  well  in  a  few 
days.' 

It  was  plain  that  enough  had  been  said  about  it  in  her  opin- 
ion ;  and  Mary,  perceiving  that  for  some  reason  she  did  not  want 
to  have  any  notice  taken  of  it,  began  to  talk  of  something  else. 
She  might  have  forgotten  the  circumstance  altogether  had  not 
Percy  himself,  the  next  day,  happened,  in  some  unguarded  move- 
ment of  Lisa's,  to  see  and  remark  on  the  same  bruises.  She  tried 
to  divert  his  thoughts  from  herself  to  the  baby,  but  her  anxiety 
to  avoid  the  subject  attracted  his  attention,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
he  sat  without  speaking,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  place  where  her 
hand  had  been  lying.  Then  some  recollection  seemed  to  come 
back  suddenly,  for  his  face  changed,  and  a  look  of  such  sadness 
— such  deep  pain — came  over  it,  that  Lisa,  who  was  watching 
him  uneasily,  saw  in  a  moment  he  remembered  everything.  Put- 
ting out  her  hand  again,  she  caught  hold  of  one^of  his  in  her  im- 
petuous way,  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

'  Dear  Percy,  don't  look  like  that.  It 's  not  worth  being  sorry 
about — indeed  it  isn't.  You  would  never  have  seen  it  if  I  were 
not  so  stupid,  and  always  show  any  little  hurts  so  easily.  Mary, 
please  tell  him  it 's  nothing — don't  let  him  make  himself  un- 
happy. I  can't  bear  to  see  it.'  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as 
she  spoke. 

Mary  was  puzzled,  and  looked  at  her  brother  doubtfully. 

*  Yes,  it  is  all  true,'  he  said  sadly.  *  It  was  my  doing.  I  had 
forgotten  the  whole  of  my  cruelty  that  evening ;  but  I  remember 


PAST  AND  FUTURE.  2S5 

it  now.  O  Lisa,  my  darling,  I  have  treated  you  shamefully. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  cannot  undo  it.  As  long  as  I  live, 
there  must  be  the  remembrance  that  I  behaved  most  cruelly  to 

you' 

But  Lisa  covered  up  his  mouth,  and  would  not  let  him  go  on. 

*  You  didn't,  Percy ;  I  won't  hear  you  say  such  things.  You 
were  not  unkind  to  me — you  were  not  cruel.  You  couldn't  help 
that  mistake — and  you  don't  think  I  love  you  one  bit  less  for  it, 
do  you  ?  If  I  were  free  now,  and  could  have  my  choice  again,  I 
would  come  back  to  you,  and  think  there  was  no  one  like  you. 
1^1  you  could  have  thought  me  wrong,  and  cared  so  little  as  not  to 
make  yourself  unhappy,  I  should  have  felt  you  didn't  love  me. 
But  as  it  is,  I  know  you  do  love  me,  and  very  much  too ;  eh, 
Percy  1 '  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  one  of  her  shy  smiles. 

*  And  I  like  to  know  it ;  it  makes  me  very  happy.  So  don't  you 
see  there  is  nothing  to  be  sorry  for — nothing  at  all.' 

But  even  Lisa's  reasoning,  convincing  as  she  considered  it, 
could  not  persuade  Percy  there  was  nothing  to  regret  in  the  past. 
T\\e  look  of  sadness  did  not  leave  his  face ;  and  his  eye  still  rested 
wi\h  the  same  expression  of  pain  on  her  hand,  as  it  grasped  his 
own. 

*  Well,  if  you  won't  think  there  is  nothing  to  be  sorry  for,  you 
can  say,  at  least,  we  shall  never  talk  of  it  again. 

He  kissed  her,  but  made  no  other  answer ;  and  then,  getting 
up  abruptly,  left  the  room. 

Lisa  looked  after  him  very  sorrowfully  as  he  went  away. 

'  Poor  Percy  ! '  she  said.  *  How  I  wish  he  would  never  think 
of  that  again.  I  can't  bear  to  see  him  looking  so  grave  and  sad, 
as  he  always  does  now,  just  as  if  he  could  never  be  happy  any 
more.  Even  baby  isn't  half  the  pleasure  to  him  I  thought  she  would 
be.  I  heard  him  give  such  a  long  sigh  this  morning  when  he  had 
her  in  his  arms;  it  quite  made  my  heart  ache.  I  wish  we  could 
persuade  him,  Mary,  to  forget  everything,  and  be  like  himself 
again.' 

*  And  so  he  will  in  time,'  Mary  said ;  *  when  he  once  sees  you 
well  again,  he  won't  think  of  the  past.  It  is  his  anxiety  about 
you  which  prevents  his  forgetting  it  at  present.' 

*  Ah,  well,  he  won't  have  long  to  wait  then,'  said  Lisa  brightly. 

*  If  I  get  on  as  fast  as  I  have  done  the  last  three  days,  I  shall 
soon  be  down-stairs  again,  and  then — he  won't  be  miserable  any 
more,  for  I  sha'n't  let  him,' 


256  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

'HERSELF   A   WITNESS   OF   KINDLY   THOUGHT.' 

A  WEEK  or  two  later,  Percy,  who  liad  been  away  at  Hoole  again 
for  some  days,  came  back  to  find  Lisa  dressed  for  the  first 
time,  and  sitting  on  a  sofa  in  her  room;  looking  so  much 
brighter — so  much  more  like  her  old  self,  that  the  sight  of  hor 
brought  an  unexpected  thrill  of  pleasure  to  his  heart.  A  very 
pretty  picture  she  made,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  white  wrappe2', 
with  its  bows  of  pink  ribbon,  and  a  softened,  shaded  light  fall- 
ing on  her  golden  hair  and  pale  delicate  features.  Very  happj', 
too,  she  looked,  as  she  bent  over  the  baby  on  her  knee;  fondling 
and  talking  to  it  in  her  eager  way.  And  as  her  eye  fell  on  her 
husband's  tall  figure  in  the  doorway  a  bright  smile  and  colour 
lighted  up  her  countenance. 

^  Why,  Lisa,  you  look  almost  yourself  again,'  was  his  greet- 
ing, in  a  tone  of  such  happiness  that  both  smile  and  coloar 
grew  brighter.  *  I  didn't  expect  to  see  so  much  improvement  as 
this,  though  Mary  did  send  me  such  good  reports.  You  must 
take  care,  dearest,  and  not  run  any  risk  by  doing  too  much.' 
He  crossed  the  room  as  he  spoke. 

'  No  fear  of  my  doing  too  much,'  Lisa  said,  when  both  she 
and  the  child  had  been  kissed  at  least  a  dozen  times.  *  Mary 
is  so  dreadfully  prudent — she  is  always  lecturing  me  about  keep- 
ing quiet.* 

'  And  she  is  quite  right ;  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  her,' 
Percy  said.  *  She  knows  how  much  I  prize  my  treasures,  and 
how  thankful  I  have  been  to  have  her  to  look  after  them  while 
I  was  away.' 

Lisa  smiled.  '  Ah  !  she  is  very  good  to  me.  I  think  every- 
body is  very  good.  Do  you  know,  such  a  number  of  people 
have  been  to  ask  after  me.  And  Lane  says  so  many  persons 
stop  her  when  she  is  out  to  look  at  baby,  and  ask  how  I  am.  It 
is  very  kind  of  them,  isn't  it  % ' 

*Very.'      There  was  something  bitter  in  his   tone.      *It   is 


'  HERSELF  A  WITNESS  OF  KINDLY  THOUGHT-'         257 

the  least  they  can  do/  he  added,  stooping  down  again  over  h\H 
child. 

Lisa  looked  as  if  she  did  not  understand  him.  *  I  think  it 's 
very  kind  of  them,'  she  said.  ^  For  we  have  not  been  here  very 
long,  Percy,  and  there  are  not  many  people  that  we  really  know 
well.  Oh,  and  Mrs  Thetford  has  been — did  you  know  that? 
She  has  called  several  times.  I  am  so  glad;  because  the  last 
time  I  met  Ada  I  thought  she  was  rather  strange,  and  I  was 
afraid  I  had  offended  her.  But  they  were  here  yesterday,  and 
Lane  said  she  was  quite  disappointed  she  couldn't  see  me.  She 
was  delighted  with  baby,  though — she  thinks  her  so  pretty. 
But  every  one  must  think  that,'  said  Lisa  with  great  pride. 
'  Percy,'  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  *  I  think  God  has  been  very 
good  to  me  to  give  me  this  dear  little  baby — and  very  good,  too, 
to  keep  me  all  this  time,  and  make  me  so  happy.  I  never 
thought,  once,  I  should  be  so  happy.  I  thought  I  was  dying. 
I  shall  be  very  glad  when  I  can  go  to  church,  and  say  those 
prayers ;  you  know  which  I  mean.  I  can  say  little  prayers  at 
home  of  course,  but  it  will  be  much  better  when  I  can  thank  Him 
there ;  and  you  and  Mary  will  go  too.  You  will  thank  Him 
with  me,  won't  you'?' 

Percy  kissed  her.  *  You  don't  think  I  have  waited  for  you  to 
go  to  church,  Lisa,  to  do  that,'  he  said ;  and  then  there  was  a 
little  silence,  she  looking  at  her  child,  and  he  looking  out  over 
the  sea,  recalling  the  bitterness  of  feeling  with  which,  some  time 
before,  he  had  often  watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  those  same 
waters — the  sparkling  of  the  same  sunlight  which  now  seemed 
so  joyous  and  brilliant. 

Lisa  broke  the  silence,  rousing  him  from  his  reverie  by  want- 
ing to  hear  what  he  had  been  doing  while  he  was  away.  After 
which  she  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  him  in  return;  and  her  tones 
were  so  joyous,  her  eye  was  so  bright,  that  his  heart  grew  light 
as  he  watched  her — lighter  than  it  had  been  for  many  a  long 
day.     She  saw  his  face  clearing. 

*  Ah!  this  is  better  than  the  last  time  you  came  back  from 
Hoole,'  she  said.  *What  a  miserable  day  that  was!  Audit 
was  my  fault — because  I  was  so  stupid.  Percy,'  she  added,  *  I 
have  never  told  you  anything  about  that — do  you  mind  my 
telling  you  now?'  And  then,  seeing  his  face  change,  ^Not  if 
you  don't  like.  I  know  you  don't  want  to  think  of  it  again  if 
you  can  help ;  only  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  that  walk.     It 

R 


258  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

made  me  so  unhappy  wlien  you  fancied  I  could  do  anything  you 
didn't  wish ;  and  I  have  never  told  you  yet  that  I  wasn't  really 
alone — that  Arthur  was  with  me.'  It  was  said  with  some  hesita- 
tion ;  and  she  watched  his  face  anxiously  as  she  spoke. 

*  I  know  it,'  was  all  he  said. 
<  You  know  it  r 

^  Yes.     I  heard  it  afterwards,  Lisa,'  speaking  with  an  effort. 

'  Oh ! '  Poor  innocent  Lisa  !  until  that  moment  she  had  not 
half  understood  his  allusions  on  that  terrible  night  of  Arthur's 
last  visit  to  the  cottage;  but  now  something  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  enlighten  her,  and  her  face  and  neck  were  dyed  crimson 
in  a  moment:  For  some  minutes  she  was  silent,  sitting  with 
her  head  bent  down  over  her  baby;  striving  in  vain,  it  appeared, 
to  regain  her  composure.  When  she  spoke  at  last,  it  was  with- 
out looking  up. 

*  Percy,  please  let  me  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  must  now  really, 
because  I  know  I  have  been  very  wrong.  Wrong,  I  mean,  in 
not  being  open  with  you.  I  want  you  to  hear  how  it  was;  and 
then  we'll  never  talk  of  it  again.     May  I  tell  you,  please?' 

*  Tell  me  anything  you  like,  dearest.'  And  she  did  not  see 
the  look  which  told  how  much  he  shrank  from  a  revival  of  those 
painful  recollections.  *  Tell  me  anything  you  like,  dearest,  if  it 
will  make  you  happier.' 

'  I  think  it  will :  at  any  rate,  I  would  rather  feel  you  under- 
stood exactly  how  it  was.  You  know,'  going  on  rather  hurriedly, 
*  I  had  found  out  about  Arthur  and  Nelly.  I  found  it  out  the 
very  day  you  came  home — quite  by  accident.  I  'm  sure  I  wish 
I  hadn't;  I've  often  wished  so.  I  went  to  see  little  Fanny 
that  afternoon,  and  when  I  came  back  I  found  Nelly  and  Arthur 
together  on  the  garden-steps.  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it  till 
just  as  I  came  up;  and  then  I  heard  him  say  something — I  for- 
get now  what  it  was;  but  he  called  her  something — his  *'own 
dearest,"  I  believe;'  and  in  spite  of  her  embarrassment,  Lisa 
smiled  a  little.  *  And  I  saw  he  had  his  arm  round  her.  Of 
course,  I  couldn't  help  guessing  then  how  it  was;  and  I  was 
very  glad,  and  told  them  so.  I  thought  Arthur  looked  very  odd 
when  I  said  it;  and  by-and-by  it  came  out — that  I  had  found 
out  something  I  ought  not.  I  was  very  angry  then,  Percy. 
Fancy  Nelly  having  been  engaged  all  those  months,  and  no  one 
knowing  anything  of  it — not  even  uncle  Henry,  who  is  so  kind. 
I  can't  tell  how  she  could  ever  think  of  it,  or  how  Arthur  could 


'  HEKSELF  A  WITNESS  OF  KINDLY  THOUGHT.*        259 

ask  her;  it  was  so  wrong.  But  when  I  told  them  they  ought  to 
tell,  they  said  it  was  impossible,  for  Aunt  Helen  would  never 
hear  of  such  an  engagement,  and  therefore  it  was  useless  to  say 
anything  about  it  j  it  would  only  make  her  angry  for  nothing.  And 
then  I  told  them,  if  they  didn't  tell,  I  must;  for  that  if  I  knew  a 
secret  like  that,  and  let  him  be  coming  here  to  meet  Elinor,  it 
would  be  helping  to  deceive  you,  and  that  was  a  thing  I  would 
never  do.  Nelly  cried  then;  she  said  I  was  unkind,  for  she 
knew  if  it  came  out  she  should  be  sent  back  to  Atherstone  and 
never  see  Arthur  again.  She  left  us  at  last,  and  ran  indoors ; 
and  then  Arthur  and  I  walked  on  the  beach  for  ever  so  long 
talking  about  it,' 

Lisa  gave  a  sigh  as  she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  up  at  her 
husband  for  the  first  time. 

*  That  was  our  walk,  Percy — the  walk  when  you  thought  I 
was  alone.  He  wouldn't  promise  me  anything  then,  but  he  did 
afterwards.  He  came  again  that  afternoon_,  and  told  me  he  had 
been  thinking  of  it,  and  that  they  wouldn't  keep  it  a  secret  any 
longer;  he  would  write  to  Uncle  Henry.  You  came  home,  Percy, 
while  we  were  talking;  and  I  was  so  tired  and  so  vexed  that  I 
couldn't  help  crying.  I  wasn't  sure  Arthur  would  really  tell, 
and  I  did  so  hate  knowing  a  secret  like  that !  And  then  you 
asked  me  about  that  walk — you  didn't  see  both  Arthur  and 
Nelly  look  at  me  to  stop  me  when  I  was  going  to  tell  you  how 
it  was.  Nelly  looked  so  imploring,  that  I  couldn't  go  on — I 
stopped;  and  afterwards  I  didn't  know  how  to  explain.  I  saw 
you  didn't  like  it,  and  that  made  me  sorry.' 

'  My  poor  little  Lisa  !' 

*  Yes,  I  know  I  was  silly.  I  was  very  unhappy  at  having 
vexed  you  ;  but  then  I  thought  it  was  only  for  a  short  time,  just 
till  Arthur  had  written  to  Uncle  Henry,  so  I  tried  not  to  mind 
it.  But  the  next  day  Elinor  was  ill.  Ah,  Percy,  you  do  not 
know  how  miserable  I  was  then !  You  saw  it,  didn't  you  1 
You  asked  me  sometimes  what  was  the  matter  with  me.  I 
couldn't  tell  you  why  I  was  so  unhappy  about  her;  but,'  and 
Lisa's  voice  dropped,  '  I  thought  if  she  died,  it  would  be  my 
doing ;  and  it  was  such  a  dreadful  thought ! ' 

'  Poor  child  ! '  Percy  said,  drawing  her  closer  to  him. 

*  You  don't  wonder  I  was  miserable.  0  Percy,  if  I  could  only 
have  come  to  you  for  a  little  bit  of  comfort  now  and  then,  and 
have  told  you  how  it  all  was,  I  should  have  been  so  glad !     But 


260  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

I  promised  Nelly  no  one  should  know  a  word  about  it  till  she 
was  well  again ;  so  I  was  obliged  to  keep  it  to  myself.  When 
she  got  better,  and  Arthur  came  home,  the  first  thing  he  did 
was  to  come  here  to  see  you.  He  would  have  told  you  every- 
thing then ;  but  you  were  away,  you  know.' 

She  stopped,  for  she  saw  how  Percy  shrank  from  recollections 
of  that  night. 

*  I  am  so  sorry,'  she  added  after  a  pause,  *  that  I  displeased 
you  so  much.  You  must  scold  me  for  it  now,  please.  I  am 
quite  well  enough  to  bear  anything  you  like  to  say ;  and  you 
must  tell  me  how  wrong  I  was,  and  I  '11  try  and  be  better  for  the 
future.' 

*  Tell  you  how  wrong  /  was,  you  mean,'  said  Percy,  looking 
at  the  pale  face  and  tearful  eyes  which  she  raised  to  his,  as  if 
really  expecting  the  scolding  she  asked  for.  '  No,  Lisa,'  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  *  the  best  thing  we  can  both  do  now  is  to  forget  it 
if  we  can.  You  have  told  me  all  you  wanted;  and  it  only 
proves  to  me,  what  I  felt  before,  how  harsh  and  unjust  I  was  to 
you.  Never  mind  it  now,'  he  added,  as  she  was  beginning  an 
eager,  indignant  disclaimer.  *  You  know  some  of  the  excuse, 
such  as  it  was,  that  I  had ;  and  you  know  how  bitterly  I  have 
repented  it  since.  And  now  let  us  leave  it — let  us  forget,  if  we 
can,  that  it  ever  happened.' 

There  was  a  touch  of  peremptoriness  in  his  tone,  and  for  a 
few  moments  Lisa  was  silent ;  but  she  looked  up  after  a  time. 

*  Percy,  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  You  won't  be  angry 
with  me,  will  you  1 ' 

*  Angry  with  you,  dearest ! '  He  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  room  with  his  child  in  his  arms,  but  paused  at  her  sofa. 
*  What  makes  you  think  such  a  thing  1  You  are  not  so  afraid  of 
me,  are  you,  that  you  should  mind  asking  me  anything  ? '  There 
was  a  little  sadness  in  his  tone,  and  she  knew  what  he  was  think- 
ing of. 

'  Oh  no,  no — not  that;  only ' She  hesitated.  '  I  don't  want 

to  vex  you;  and  I'm  afraid  you  will  not  like  this' She 

looked  at  him  again,  and  he  smiled. 

*  Never  mind  whether  I  like  it  or  not,  little  woman ;  let  me 
hear  it,  at  any  rate,'  sitting  down  by  her  side.     '  What  is  it  ? ' 

*  It  is  about  Arthur  and  Nelly,'  she  went  on  with  some  hesi- 
tation. *  You  are  not  angry  with  them,  are  you  1  Ah,  it 's 
no  use  asking  you,  for  I  see  you  are — I  am  so  sorry ! '    Her  face 


^HERSELF  A  WITNESS  OF  KINDLY  THOUGHT.'         261 

fell;  and  Percy,  who  now  less  than  ever  could  bear  to  see 
the  slightest  shade  upon  it,  moved  uneasily,  but  made  no 
answer. 

*  I  was  afraid  you  were,'  she  said  sadly,  *  and  it  makes  me  so 
sorry  !     I  know  you  have  a  great  deal  to  forgive — far  more  than 

any  one  else ;  but  still  I  hoped ' Her  voice  was  faltering. 

*  Only  think  how  unhappy  they  are.' 

*  Very  probably,'  he  answered.  ^  People  are  generally  sorry 
when  they  bring  trouble  on  themselves.  I  wouldn't  give  much 
for  that  kind  of  sorrow,  Lisa.' 

'  But  it  isn't  only  that  with  them.  You  must  remember  they 
had  made  up  their  minds  to  tell  all  before  it  came  out  as  it  did ; 
if  Arthur  had  not  had  that  accident,  you  would  have  heard  every- 
thing. 0  Percy,  they  were  wrong — but  every  one  is  wrong  at 
times ;  and  if  they  meant  to  do  right ' 

*  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that/  was  the  answer.  *  What 
they  meant  to  do  is  no  affair  of  mine.  It  was  never  done ;  and 
whether  it  ever  would  have  been,  whether  they  really  intended 
what  they  said,  no  one  can  tell  now.  I  can  only  go  by  what 
they  did,  and,  unfortunately,  actions  are  truer  interpreters  of 
men's  intentions  than  any  words  can  be.' 

*  But,  Percy,  do  you  think  it  right  to  doubt  a  person's  good 
intentions  always  because  they  have  failed  once  1  Wouldn't  it 
be  better  to  trust  them,  and  try  to  think  that,  though  they 
have  been  wrong,  they  may  still  wish  to  begin  right  again  ?  You 
said  yesterday  that  very  likely  we  may  have  to  go  out  to  the 
Cape  this  autumn.  Will  you  go  away  without  speaking  one  kind 
word  to  them,  or  letting  them  think  you  have  forgiven  them  1 
It  would  be  so  very  hard  if  you  did.' 

Percy  was  silent ;  he  sat  looking  at  his  child  without  raising 
his  head. 

*  I  know  they  were  wrong,'  Lisa  said  ;  *  but  who  isn't  wrong 
sometimes  ?  And  then,  think  what  it  is  for  them  to  have  to  give 
each  other  up,  and  to  know  that  perhaps  they  may  never  meet 
again.  O  Percy,  if  I  had  been  in  Nelly's  place,  and  afraid  of 
losing  you,  I  might  have  done  as  she  did.  I  can't  tell.  I  was 
never  tried.' 

'  Never,  Lisa,  never ;  you  are  wronging  yourself.  You  never 
would  have  acted  as  they  did.  And  you  must  remember  that 
whatever  they  have  to  bear,  they  have  brought  on  themselves. 
They  cannot  be  surprised  if  they  get  more  blame  than  pity.' 


262  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY, 

He  spoke  sternly,  and  Lisa  made  no  answer.  But  when,  after 
a  long  pause,  Percy  looked  up,  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.     He  was  seized  with  compunction  at  once. 

*  Why,  Lisa,  my  darling,  I  have  not  made  you  cry  1  Don't 
do  that,  dearest,'  in  great  distress.  ^  You  are  not  going  to  make 
yourself  unhappy  about  those  two,  are  you  ?  Are  you  thinking 
me  very  hard  and  unjust  because  I  can't  think  of  them  as  I 
used  to  do?' 

^ISTot  exactly  unjust,'  Lisa  said,  struggling  to  speak  clearly. 
'  But  still  I — I  wish  you  could  think  differently.  And  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  too,  that  if  they  're  to  be  judged  so  hardly  for  this 
one  wrong  thing,  what  will  become  of  me,  who  am  always  doing 
wrong.     There  will  be  no  chance  for  me,  I  am  afraid.' 

'  No  chance  for  you,  my  poor  child  i  Why,  what  have  you 
ever  done  V  was  Percy's  answer,  murmured  more  to  himself, 
however,  than  spoken  aloud;  and  then  he  fell  into  a  deep 
reverie.  *  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Lisa  V  he  asked  at 
length. 

Lisa  looked  up,  but  it  was  very  shyly,  though  her  eyes 
brightened.     *  I  don't  know  exactly ;  only — I  thought  that — that 

perhaps ' Her  shyness  was  increasing.     *  Don't  you  think 

you  might  go  and  see  Arthur?  He  would  like  it  so  much,  I  am 
sure ;  for,  poor  fellow,  he  is  very  lonely.  Mary  went  up  to  the 
Lodge  the  other  day,  and  found  him  all  alone ;  and — and  she 
made  me  so  sorry  for  him.  I  am  sure  he  feels  it  all  very  much ; 
and  she  says,  Percy,  that  he  thinks  more  of  you  than  of  any  one, 

because  — you  know  why ' and  her  colour  deepened.     '  I  am 

afraid  he  thinks  you  can  never  forgive  him.' 

Percy  was  silent ;  but  he  looked  at  Lisa's  pleading  face,  and 
then  at  the  sleeping  child  upon  his  knee,  and  for  a  long  time  he 
sat  lost  in  thought.  For  some  minutes  she  watched  him  anxiously ; 
but  he  turned  round  at  last,  and  smiled  then  as  he  met  her 
gaze. 

'  And  you  want  me  to  go  and  see  him,  do  you  ?  But,  Lisa,  I 
can't ;  he  is  gone.' 

*  Gone  I '  and  her  face  fell  again.  *  Ah,  yes,  Mary  told  me  he 
was  going.  Colonel  Crawford  has  another  tutor  now  for  his 
boys.     But  where  has  he  gone  V 

'  I  don't  know.  But  it  is  not  for  long,  dearest,'  seeing  her 
disappointed  look.  *He  will  be  back  in  a  week  or  two,  I 
believe.' 


^  LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BURY  ITS  DEAD.'  263 

'  And  you  will  see  him  then  ?  Dear  Percy,  thank  you/  as  he 
smiled.     '  How  good  you  are  ! ' 

'  Not  very  good,  Lisa ;  it  is  only  what  you  say  I  ought  Jo  do/ 
he  answered  lightly. 

'  But  it  makes  me  very  happy,'  she  said,  with  a  look  which 
made  his  face  brighten,  and  then  the  subject  was  dropped. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

'LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BUEY  ITS  DEAD.' 

It  was  one  sunny  afternoon  in  August,  that  Lisa  was  lying  on  a 
sofa  on  the  garden  lawn,  under  the  shade  of  an  acacia-tree — the 
same  tree  beneath  which  she  and  Arthur  had  sat  together  on 
just  such  another  sunny  day,  in  quite  the  early  summer — on  that 
day  which  had  been  to  her  the  beginning  of  so  many  troubles. 

It  was  a  warm  bright  afternoon  now,  as  it  had  been  then,  with 
sunshine  on  sea  and  land,  with  the  deepest  of  deep  blue  skies 
seen  through  the  pale  green  leaves,  and  all  around  a  murmur  of 
pleasant  sounds — of  the  falling  tide,  of  the  chirp  and  hum  of 
bird  and  insect,  of  the  chime  of  distant  bells  from  some  village 
church  across  the  bay.  It  was  just  such  an  afternoon  when  to 
lie  there  doing  nothing  would  have  seemed  the  perfection  of 
enjoyment.  But  Lisa  did  not  appear  to  have  found  it  so.  She 
had  been  alone  a  long  time,  both  Percy  and  Mary  being  out ; 
and  even  her  baby  was  away.  Lane  having  taken  her  to  the 
beach ;  and  as  she  lay  there  in  undisturbed  solitude,  she  looked 
tired  and  very  sad.  There  was  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  she  was 
not  reading  it — her  head  was  resting  back  upon  her  pillows  ]  but 
although  her  eyes  were  closed,  there  was  no  expression  of  repose 
upon  her  face.  On  the  contrary,  it  wore  a  painful  look,  which 
showed  that  whatever  her  thoughts  might  be,  they  had  not 
brought   the   happiness  that   might   have  belonged  to  such   a 


264  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

summer's  day.  The  sound  of  steps  upon  the  gravel  walk,  after 
more  than  an  hour  had  gone  by,  made  her  look  up  hastily,  and 
the  sad  expression  was  gone  from  her  face  in  a  moment.  In  its 
place  there  came  a  smile. 

*  0  Percy,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come ! '  but  she  stopped 
short,  for  it  was  not  her  husband  who  was  coming  towards  her. 
She  looked  again.  Could  it  be  1  Yes ;  though  the  sunlight  was 
in  her  eyes,  she  saw  in  a  moment  who  it  was  :  paler  and  thinner 
than  before ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  him — it  Avas  Arthur ; 
and  the  deep  crimson  colour  mounted  to  Lisa's  face  as  she 
recognised  him.  For  a  minute  he  seemed  almost  as  much 
embarrassed  as  herself. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lisa ;  I  didn't  know  you  were  alone,*  he 
began  with  some  shyness — a  most  unusual  thing  with  him.  *  I 
thought  Percy  was  always  at  home  at  this  time.' 

*  Never  mind,'  Lisa  said,  trying  to  shake  off  her  own  embar- 
rassment.    *  He  will  be  here  directly.' 

*  He  asked  me  to  come,'  Arthur  said.  *  I  only  got  back  this 
morning ;  and  Ff ound  a  note  at  the  Lodge  from  him,  so  I  thought 
I  would  call.     Didn't  he  tell  you  he  had  WTitten?' 

'  No,'  and  Lisa  looked  infinitely  relieved.  *  But  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you,  Arthur,  though  I  didn't  expect  you.  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  time  V 

'  Staying  with  some  friends  at  Ryde.  It  was  a  chance  I  came 
back  here  at  all.  I  thought  you  had  all  thrown  me  overboard, 
and  I  intended  to  keep  out  of  your  way.  But  I  heard  from  Colonel 
Crawford  yesterday,  asking  me  to  come  over  and  see  his  brother 
about  an  engagement  they  wanted  me  to  make;  and  then  at 
Lassell  Lodge  I  found  Percy's  note.  I — well,  never  mind,  I 
didn't  know  he  'd  have  written  as  he  did ;  and  so,'  he  added, 
with  a  smile,  '  here  I  am.' 

Lisa  smiled  too.  ^I  am  so  glad  !'  but,  warmly  as  she  spoke, 
both  felt  there  was  some  constraint  between  them. 

'You  are  not  quite  well  yet,  are  you,  Arthur?  You  don't 
look  so,'  she  remarked,  after  a  long  pause. 

*  Don't  1 1  But  a  fellow  can't  get  such  a  knock  on  the  head 
and  not  feel  it  for  some  time.  Not  that  it  w^as  that  unlucky 
tumble,  though,  that  did  it  all.  I  should  have  got  over  it  much 
sooner  if  it  hadn't  been  for ' 

'  Thinking  of  Nelly,  I  suppose,'  said  Lisa,  with  some  hesita- 
tion, as  he  paused.     *  Poor  Nelly  !' 


'  LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BUKY  ITS  DEAD.'  265 

There  was  a  sigh  from  him.  '  Yes,  there  was  the  thought  of 
her,  and  all  I  had  brought  upon  her  ;  and  then  they  told  me  of 
you,  Lisa.' 

*  I  am  very,  very  sorry,'  Lisa  exclaimed.  '  You  don*t  know, 
Arthur,  how  sorry  I  have  been  for  you  all  along.' 

*  Sorry  !  have  youl'  and  he  looked  up  with  rather  a  melan- 
choly smile.  *  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been 
angry,  not  sorry.  You  have  suffered  enough  through  me.  I 
don't  think  I  deserved  much  pity  from  anybody,  and  I  wasn't 
surprised  I  didn't  get  it  from  most  of  them.  They  had  a  right  to 
be  angry,  I  know ;  and  my  uncle,  perhaps,  more  than  any  of 
them.  He  was  bitter  enough,  certainly,  and  didn't  spare  me  in 
any  way  ;  or  rather  my  aunt  didn't  :  for  it  was  her  doing,  of 
course.  Well,  I  deserved  it  all,  I  suppose ;  but  I  can't  say  I 
felt  it  any  tlie  less  for  that.  For,  selfish  and  inconsiderate  as  I 
was  in  my  treatment  of  Nelly,  I  did  love  her,  Lisa.  I  love  her 
still — all  the  more  because  I  have  lost  her  for  ever.' 

*  I  don't  believe  it  is  for  ever,'  Lisa  exclaimed.  '  I  won't 
believe  it.  She  loves  you,  Arthur  ;  you  know  she  does,  as  well 
as  you  love  her.  And  by-and-by — in  a  few  years,  when  you 
have  a  home  to  give  her.  Uncle  Henry  won't  refuse  his  consent. 
You  will  be  married  some  day  ;  see  if  you  are  not.' 

Arthur  shook  his  head.  '  You  didn't  see  his  letter,  or  you 
would  know  how  impossible  it  is.  My  aunt  made  him  write  it, 
I  know  ',  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  No,' — and  there  was 
a  dreary  sigh, — *  I  know  I  have  no  chance  ;  and  it  is  better  to 
face  the  thought  and  have  done  with  it,  rather  than  be  always 
clinging  to  hopes  that  must  come  to  nothing.' 

^  And  you  mean  to  forget  her,  then,'  Lisa  said,  half  reproach- 
fully. 

'  I  said  nothing  about  forgetting — I  can't  do  that,'  was  the 
answer ;  and  there  was  a  long  silence,  which  was  not  broken 
until  voices  were  heard  approaching,  and  Mary  and  Percy  turned 
the  corner  of  the  house.  Then  Arthur  started  up,  but  he  did 
not  go  to  meet  them  j  and  as  he  saw  Percy's  glass  raised  to 
ascertain  who  the  visitor  was,  and  heard  Mary's  exclamation  of 
astonishment,  he  stood  for  a  moment,  looldng  so  very  awkward 
that,  although  her  own  embarrassment  was  almost  as  great, 
Lisa  could  not  help  pitying  him.  His  awkwardness  dimi- 
nished rapidly,  however,  when  Mary  ran  forward  to  meet  him  * 
and  it  vanished  altogether  before  Percy's  hearty  shake  of  the 


266  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

hand,  and  his  'Ah,  Arthur,  how  are  you?     I'm  glad  to  see 
you/ 

The  words  did  not  say  much,  and  the  tone  as  little ;  but  that 
warm  shake  of  the  hand  was  more  expressive,  and  Arthur  was 
restored  to  ease  at  once. 

*  He  thought  he  should  have  found  you  at  home,*  Lisa  said. 

*  But  you  are  late  to-day,  are  you  not  1 ' 

*  Yes,  rather ;  I  was  kept ;  but  it 's  all  right,  dearest.  I  asked 
him  to  come  :'  and  there  was  a  grave  smile  on  his  face  as  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  with  a  whispered,  *  I  was  so  glad  to  see 
him  again,  Percy.'  j 

That  smile  was  gone,  however,  when,  after  a  few  common-  ] 

places  had  been  exchanged,  he  and  Arthur,  as  if  by  mutual  con-  \ 

sent,  found  themselves  moving  off  towards  one  of  the  side-paths,  : 

where  perhaps  they  felt  they  could  speak  more  freely  of  what  \ 

both  would  be  glad  to  get  off  their  minds.  j 

'  I  never  had  one  thought  towards  her  which  you  might  not  ] 

have  known,'  were  Arthur's  first  words  then,  and  they  brought  a  ■ 

shadow  over  Percy's  face.     It  was  with  something  of  sadness  in  ] 

his  tone  that  he  said,  almost  humbly —  j 

*  I  know  it,  Arthur.     I  might  have  trusted  both  you  and  her  j 
more.     Will  you  forgive  me*?'  \ 

It  was  all  that  ever  passed  between  them  on  the  subject ;  for  ; 
Arthur,  who  had  come  half  expecting  reproaches,  was  deeply 

touched  by  the  tone  in  which  those  few  words  were  spoken,  and  { 

could  only  grasp  his  cousin's  hand  in  silence.     They  talked  long  i 

afterwards,  as  they  paced  backwards  and  forwards  on  one  of  the  ] 

gravel  walks,  but  it  was  not  of  that ;    it  was  done  with  and  i 

dismissed  for  ever.     Their  conversation  had  the  effect  of  raising  ; 

Arthur's  spirits ;   and  when  they  returned  to  Lisa's  sofa,  he  was  ; 

far  more  like  himself  than  when  he  had  first  come  in.     They  got  \ 

back  as  Lane  made  her  appearance  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  ' 
and  Lisa  called  to  her. 

'  Arthur  has  never  seen  baby  yet,'  she  said.     '  He  will  like  to  \ 

see  her,  I  am  sure.'     And  Percy  himself  strode  off  to  fetch  the  : 

child.  ; 

*  There 's  your  piccaninny,'  he  said,  laying  it  in  Lisa's  laj).  = 

*  And  now,  Arthur,  do  your  duty,  and  admire  her  properly.  If  ' 
you  like  large  babies,  you  won't  think  much  of  her,  for  I  believe  ■ 
she  is  about  one  of  the  smallest  specimens  of  the  genus  that  ever  ; 
was  seen.     But  Lisa  says  that  is  ail  the  better  :  she  considers  ; 


'  LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BUEY  ITS  DEAD.'  267 

large  babies  common  and  plebeian,  and  thinks  this  one  greatly- 
improved  by  being  such  a  dot.' 

The  '  dot '  had  a  tiny  hand  clutched  very  tight  round  one  of 
his  fingers  as  he  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  sofa  j  and  the  action, 
while  it  held  him  prisoner,  gave  him  an  excuse  for  admiring  her 
to  his  heart's  content,  even  if  Arthur  could  not  be  persuaded  into 
doing  the  same. 

^  But  he  really  must — he  can't  help  it,'  Lisa  cried.  '  She  is 
such  a  beauty.  Look  at  her,  Arthur ;  come  round  here,  you 
can't  see  her  there,'  she  exclaimed  eagerly ;  and  Arthur  came 
round  accordingly,  being  secretly  puzzled  to  discover  in  what 
the  difference  consisted  between  this  particular  specimen  of 
babyhood  and  those  that  might  be  met  with  anywhere ;  but  he 
was  wise  enough  not  to  say  so,  and  after  some  contemplation  of  the 
little  article,  during  which  Lisa  expatiated  largely  on  its  various 
beauties,  he  remarked — 

*Well,  it's  a  pretty  little  thing,  certainly.  I  shouldn't 
wonder,'  making  a  dash  at  a  compliment,  *  if  it  were  to  grow  up 
very  good-looking — something  like  you.' 

Lisa  pouted.  *  How  stupid  you  are,  Arthur  !  That  is  such 
half-and-half  praise.  And  why  do  you  call  her  "it"?  as  if  you 
were  not  sure  whether  she  were  a  boy  or  a  girl.' 

Arthur  laughed  a  little.  *  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  not  quite 
sure,'  he  said  ;  *  for  I  didn't  hear  whether  you  talked  of  him  or 
her.     But  it 's  a  **  she,"  is  it?     And  what  is  its  name  V 

'  Lisa  Mary.  Not  very  pretty  is  it  ?  Mary  Isabel  would  have 
been  much  prettier.  But  it  was  Percy's  doing.  We  shan't  call 
her  Lisa,  though ;  for  I  don't  want  her  to  be  like  me — a  naughty 
good-for-nothing  thing.  She  must  grow  up  something  much 
better,' 

'  Not  a  Scaramouch,  I  suppose  ?'  said  Arthur,  with  one  of  his 
old  looks ;  and  as  Lisa  laughed,  he  added,  ^  Well,  it  seems 
queer  certainly  to  see  you  setting  up  for  a  mother.  Are  you  sure 
it's  not  a  mistake?' 

*  Ah,  you  think  I  am  not  old  enough  to  take  care  of  her,'  Lisa 
said,  a  little  sorrowfully.  *  Everybody  seems  to  think  so.  But  I 
shall.  I  love  her  so  much  that  I  am  sure  I  shall  learn  to  be  a 
good  mother.  And  you  know  I  shall  not  always  be  so  young  as 
I  am  now.  Perhaps  some  day  I  may  turn  out  quite  good  and 
wise  like  Mary;  who  knows  ?'  she  said  with  a  smile. 

Arthur  was  silent.     He  was  struck  at  that  moment  by  the 


268  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY.  \ 

\ 
extreme  delicacy  of  Lisa's  appearance  ;  and  while  she  was  speak-  i 
ing,  he  had  been  thinking  more  of  that  than  listening  to  what  j 
she  said.  i 

As  she  sat  bending  over  her  baby,  he  looked  at  her  wasted  and  | 
almost  transparent  hand,  and  at  her  thin  face,  where  the  fitful  I 
colour  came  with  the  exertion  of  speaking,  and  then,  fading  away  i 
when  she  was  silent,  left  it  as  white  as  the  dress  she  wore ;  and  I 
a  most  painful  feeling  came  over  him.  The  fragile  delicate  look  | 
of  both  mother  and  child  brought  a  sudden  misgiving  to  his  : 
mind ;  and  he  glanced  involuntarily  at  Percy,  expecting  to  see  \ 
the  same  fear  reflected  in  his  face.  But  Percy  was  too  accus-  | 
tomed  to  Lisa's  appearance  to  notice  anything  amiss  ;  and  Arthur,  \ 
relieved  by  his  unconcern,  dismissed  as  groundless  the  almost  \ 
nameless  dread  which  for  a  moment  had  taken  possession  of  him.  1 
It  returned,  however,  in  spite  of  himself  many  times  during  the  • 
evening ;  and  not  understanding  how  soon  those  about  an  in-  i 
valid  become  accustomed  to  symptoms  which  strike  a  stranger  so  i 
forcibly,  he  wondered  how  Percy,  wrapped  up  in  her  as  he  was,  ; 
could  fail  to  notice  the  languor  and  exhaustion  which  stole  over  . 
her  from  time  to  time,  and  which  all  her  high  spirits  could  not  \ 
conceal.  So  apparent  was  it  that  he  could  not  help  remarking  i 
on  it,  and  saying  that  she  did  not  seem  to  be  getting  up  her  j 
strength  very  fast.  Lisa's  look  at  him,  however,  as  he  made  the  ; 
observation,  though  he  did  not  understand  it,  was  such  an  im-  J 
ploring  one  that  he  stopped  suddenly.  \ 

^1  am  a  great  deal  stronger  than  I  was  some  time  ago,'  she  ■ 
said  hastily.     *  But  this  happens  to  be  one   of  my  bad  days.  | 
Baby  was  very  cross  all  morning,  and  that  tired  me  out.     She  is  \ 
not  always  so,  though,  and  some  days  I  am  much  better  ;  I  shall 
be  quite  strong  again  soon.' 

*  Yes,  she  only  wants  change  of  air  now,'  Percy  said.  *  Dr  i 
Mapleston  won't  let  her  travel  yet ;  but  directly  he  says  she  may  ; 
go,  I  shall  take  her  down  to  Atherstone.  A  month  there  will  set  I 
her  up  again — won't  it,  Lisa  1 '  i 

She  smiled.  '  Yes,  I  am  sure  it  will.  Why,  only  thinking  of  j 
it  almost  makes  me  well.  It  will  be  such  a  pleasure  to  see  the  ' 
dear  old  Priory  and  everybody  again  !'  j 

Arthur's  prospects  were  then  discussed,  and  much  was  said  of  ] 
the  engagement  he  had  made  to  go  abroad  as  travelling  tutor  for  ' 
some  months,  of  his  intention  of  returning  to  England  for  a  few  ; 
days  in  October  to  go  up  for  his  voluntary,  and  his  hopes  of  i 


^  LET  THE  DEAD  PAST  BURY  ITS  DEAD/  269 

being  ordained  in  tlie  spring — of  all  of  which  he  talked  unre- 
servedly, though  not  so  lightly  as  he  would  have  done  a  short 
time  back.  Lisa  was  struck  by  the  difference  in  his  tone,  and 
she  liked  him  all  the  better  for  the  change. 

*  When  shall  we  see  you  again?'  she  asked,  as  he  rose  at 
length  to  take  leave. 

*  I  don't  know.  I  must  be  off  to  Eyde  to-morrow  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  able  to  get  down  here 
again  before  we  leave  England.  But  I  shall  try  and  run  down 
when  I  come  back  in  October. 

^  I  hope  you  will  come,'  she  said  with  a  smile.  ^  And,  Arthur, 
I  am  very  glad  you  have  been  here  to-day  ;  I  should  have  been 
so  sorry  if  you  had  gone  away  and  thought  we  had  all  given 
you  up  !  You  won't  mind  w^aiting  for  Nelly  now.  I  feel  sure 
you  will  see  her  again  some  day,  and  you  will  both  be  very 
happy.' 

He  made  no  answer,  but  he  took  the  hand  she  held  out  to 
him  ;  and,  as  if  moved  by  some  sudden  impulse,  raised  it  to  his 
lips. 

*  Good-bye,  Lisa — God  bless  you  !'  was  all  he  said,  and  turn- 
ing away  hastily,  the  next  moment  he  was  gone. 

He  left  Gainsford  on  the  following  morning ;  and  a  few  days 
later  he  went  abroad.  But  in  other  lands,  and  amidst  foreign 
scenes,  that  look  and  smile  of  hers  long  haunted  him ;  and  in 
after-years,  when  other  memories  were  fading,  they  were  with 
him  still. 


270  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY,  \ 

CHAPTER  XL. 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  QUIET  LAND.  \ 

i 

It  was  strange  that  the  fears  which  had  startled  Arthur  had  never  \ 
suggested  themselves  to  Percy.  It  never  seemed  to  strike  him  i 
how  slow  Lisa's  fancied  recovery  was.  Casual  acquaintance  who  ] 
came  to  the  house  saw  the  change  which  each  day  made  in  her  \ 
appearance ;  but  while  they  pitied  the  husband  who  could  so  \ 
blind  himself  to  what  was  passing  before  his  eyes,  there  was  not  J 
one  to  tell  him  that  the  hopes  on  which  he  was  building  must  ] 
sooner  or  later  fade  away.  | 

Even  Mary  was  as  much  deceived  as  he  was,  and  accustomed  ] 
to  the  weakness  which  she  had  so  long  witnessed,  did  not  think  i 
so  much  of  it  as  she  would  have  done  had  she  seen  it  for  the  first  ■ 
time ;  while  Lisa's  own  high  spirits  contributed  in  no  small  de-  \ 
gree  to  keep  up  the  deception.  i 

Mary  was  the  first  of  those  around  her,  however,  to  wake  up  to  i 
the  realities  of  the  case ;  and  although  for  some  time  she  was  , 
slow  in  taking  in  the  full  extent  of  her  cousin's  danger,  the  know-  ■ 
ledge  of  it  came  upon  her  by  degrees,  and  only  too  surely.  For  i 
a  short  time,  indeed,  she  still  doubted  and  hoped  on,  trusting  j 
that  she  might  yet  be  mistaken ;  but  as  she  watched  Lisa's  daily  . 
increasing  languor,  and  mentally  contrasted  her  small  amount  of 
strength  now  with  what  it  had  been  even  a  week  or  two  before,  • 
she  could  at  last  no  longer  doubt,  and  the  truth  of  all  her  worst  ; 
convictions  gradually  forced  itself  upon  her  mind.  j 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  her ;  and  when  she  heard  from  Dr  j 
Mapleston,  whom  she  questioned  on  the  subject,  that  her  fears  ] 
were  only  too  well  founded,  she  was  completely  overcome.  The  ^ 
thought  of  losing  her  little  Lisa  was  too  much  for  her,  and  her  \ 
grief  at  first  was  beyond  control ;  many  bitter  tears  being  shed  - 
in  solitude  before  she  could  learn  to  face  her  sorrow,  and  gather  '• 
strength  for  the  trial  that  was  slowly  but  surely  coming.  Very  ] 
hard,  too,  it  was  to  keep  her  grief  to  herself ;  and  harder  still  to  ; 
wear  a  cheerful  face,  and  hear  hopes  spoken  of  which  she  knew  ^ 
now  could  never  be  realised.    Happily,  however,  this  part  of  her  ■ 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  QUIET  LAND.         271 

trial  would  not  last  long,  for  Lisa,  she  knew,  ought  to  be  pre- 
pared for  what  was  coming ;  and  much  as  she  shrank  from  the 
task  of  telling  her  what  her  danger  was,  she  felt  she  ought  not 
to  let  her  go  on  deceiving  herself. 

But  both  that  day  and  the  next  her  cousin  was  better,  and,  as 
usual  on  such  occasions,  was  in  almost  wildly  extravagant  spirits; 
and  she  played  so  merrily  with  her  baby,  and  talked  so  gaily  to 
Percy,  that  Mary  found  it  impossible  to  cast  a  shadow  upon 
their  happiness.  She  almost  felt,  indeed,  as  if  she  were  mis- 
taken ;  so  impossible  did  it  seem  that  anything  so  bright  and 
full  of  life  as  her  cousin  looked  was,  in  truth,  fast  passing 
away. 

But  the  following  morning  was  sultry  in  the  extreme ;  and 
Lisa  lay  upon  the  sofa  in  her  own  room,  working,  indeed,  and 
making  every  effort  to  appear  as  well  as  she  had  been  the  two 
last  days ;  but  with  such  a  look  of  languor  about  her,  that  it 
was  evident  she  was  only  overtasking  her  strength  :  and  as  Mary 
sat  by  her  side,  and  saw  the  hectic  flush  upon  her  face,  and  felt 
her  burning  hand,  her  fears  came  back  again,  and  she  began  once 
more  to  realise  how  little  hope  there  was  of  their  proving  ground- 
less. 

'  Why  don't  you  leave  off,  and  rest  a  little,  dear  Lisa  1 '  she 
said  at  last ;  '  and  then  you  will  be  fresh  for  Percy  in  the  after- 
noon. He  won't  like  to  see  you  looking  as  you  do  now  when  he 
comes  home.' 

*  Looking  as  I  do  now,  Mary  ?  What  do  you  mean  1 '  she  said, 
a  little  petulantly.  ^  I  look  very  well,  I  am  sure ;  for  I  asked 
Lane  to  give  me  the  glass  just  as  you  came  in,  and  I  had  quite  a 
nice  colour.  I  can't  imagine  why  you  should  fancy  there  is  any- 
thing the  matter  with  me.' 

*  Only  because  you  look  so  tired,  dear,'  Mary  said,  with  a  fal- 
tering voice.     *  I  don't  think  you  can  be  very  strong' 

*  It 's  so  hot ! '  Lisa  interrupted.  *  It  is  that  makes  me  feel  so 
tired.  Do  you  know,  Mary,  I  think  it  is  hotter  than  it  has  ever 
been,'  and  she  gasped  for  breath.  '  There  is  no  air  anywhere. 
How  would  it  be  if  we  opened  that  other  window  as  well  as 
thisr 

Mary  did  as  she  was  asked ;  but  the  change  did  not  appear  to 
make  much  difference  in  the  temperature  of  the  room,  and  Lisa 
looked  more  and  more  exhausted. 

*  I  don't  think  I  shall  get  stronger  till  the  weather  is  cooler 


272  ATHERSTOKE  PRIORY. 

again/  slie  said.      *  I  am  very  sorry,  because  Percy  is  so  anxious 
for  us  to  get  to  Atherstone.     He  thinks  I  should  get  well  directly 
there ;  and  I  think  so  too.     Bat  Dr  Mcapleston  is  so  tiresome —  , 
he  is  always  saying,  '*  Wait  a  little  longer." ' 

'  And  he  is  right,  dear  Lisa,'  Mary  said.  *  You  couldn't  bear 
the  journey.' 

'  Not  as  I  am  just  now,  perhaps ;  but  I  am  not  always  like 
this.  I  was  better  yesterday.  I  shall  be  better  again  this  even- 
ing, when  it  is  not  so  hot.  No  one  can  tell  what  my  strength  is 
on  a  day  like  this.     The  heat  tries  everybody.'  ' 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  moment.  *  And  do  you  really  think,  ] 
Lisa  dear,  that  you  are  stronger  than  you  were  a  short  time  \ 
since — than  you  were  perhaps  a  fortnight  ago  ? '  The  words  \ 
came  out  before  she  thought  what  she  was  saying.  ; 

Lisa  looked  at  her.  *  What  do  you  mean,  Mary  1 '  she  asked  j 
uneasily.  *  A  fortnight  ago  !  I  really  don't  remember — that  is  j 
so  far  back.  I  am  not  so  strong,  perhaps,  this  morning  as  I  was  ] 
yesterday  ;  but  that  is  nothing.  I  shall  be  better  again  this  ; 
evening.'  ] 

'  You  are  always  better  in  the  evening,'  Mary  said,  with  a  | 
sigh.  '    ^  ...  ' 

*  Well,  and  that  is  a  good  thing,  isn't  it  ? '  Lisa  answered ;  j 
but  although  she  spoke  lightly,  her  eyes  were  fixed  uneasily  on  | 
her  cousin.  '  You  don't  think  it  a  bad  sign  for  me  to  be  better  ; 
then,  do  you  1 '  she  asked,  anxiously.  ■ 

*  I  don't  know,'  and  Mary  kissed  her.  *  But — it  seems  very  ■ 
little  use  for  you  to  be  better  then,  if  you  are  worse  again  every  i 
morning.' 

*  Not  every  morning — only  sometimes.  And  it  is  no  wonder  1 
to-day;  do  you  think  it  is?'  And  as  no  answer  came,  Lisa  j 
looked  up  again.  There  were  tears  in  Mary's  eyes,  which  she  • 
was  trying  in  vain  to  hide.  *  I  don't  understand  you,  Mary ;  \ 
you  are  very  strange.  And  you  don't  look  like  yourself.  Do  j 
you  mean  you  are  afraid' | 

She  stopped ;  a  strange  look  came  over  her  face ;  and  after  a  \ 
few  moments'  silence  there  was  a  piteous  cry,  and  she  started  i 
up. 

*  Mary,  Mary,  you  know  it !  Is  it  true  ?  Tell  me  it  isn't.  \ 
Tell  me  I  may  stay  a  little  longer — that  I  needn't  leave  you  all.  ! 
For  I  can't  go  yet !  indeed  I  can't.  Ah,  God  forgive  me !  I  | 
don't  know  what  I  am  saying.     For  I  must — I  know  I  must.'  j 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  QUIET  LAND.  273 

She  sank  back  again  on  her  pillow,  and  burst  into  passionate 
tears. 

Mary  knelt  by  her  side,  and  soothed  her  tenderly.  *  Dear 
Lisa,'  she  said  in  her  gentle  voice — and  its  quiet  tones  insensibly 
stilled  that  paroxysm  of  grief — *  Dear  Lisa,  don't  cry  like  that. 
You  must  not — it  Avill  only  make  you  worse.  And  you  must 
remember,  my  darling,  tbat  my  knowing  it  will  make  no  differ- 
ence— it  will  not  bring  it  any  nearer.  But  it  will  let  us  talk 
together  of  it,  and  help  you  to  bear  it  better.  Dear  Lisa,  won't 
you  be  calmer  *? '  she  whispered,  as  the  sobs  still  continued,  though 
less  wildly  than  before.  *  Won't  you  be  calm,  and  not  make  your- 
self ill,  for  Percy's  sake  ?  You  don't  want  to  make  him  unhappy, 
I  am  sure.' 

*  Make  him  unhappy  ! '  and  she  raised  her  head.  *  Ah,  Mary, 
that  is  why  I  have  kept  it  to  myself.  For  I  have  known  it  so 
long — so  very  long.  I  felt  I  was  getting  weaker.  I  knew  long 
ago  I  should  never  get  wxll ;  but  I  tried — I  tried  to  make  him 
think  I  should.  I  tried  to  make  myself  out  better  than  I  was, 
that  he  might  not  guess  the  truth.  I  knew  it  would  make  him 
so  unhappy  if  he  did,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  him  so.  And 
yet  I  vfanted  to  tell  him  ;  for  I  longed — oh,  you  can  never  guess 
how  I  have  longed — to  talk  to  some  one  about  it.'  She  sobbed 
convulsively. 

*  My  dearest  Lisa,  how  I  wish  I  had  known  it !  But  I 
guessed  nothing  of  it  until  lately;  and  I  never  thought  you 
had  any  fears  yourself.  You  always  seemed  so  hopeful  and 
cheerful.' 

*  No,  I  wasn't — I  was  frightened  and  miserable.'  And  she 
shuddered.  *  Sometimes  I  felt  as  if  I  must  tell  Percy — as  if  I 
couldn't  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  And  then,  when  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  begin,  he  would  look  at  me  as  he  often 
does,  and  smile  as  if  he  were  so  glad  to  see  me  better — and  then, 
Mary,  I  coulchiH  tell  him.  I  was  obliged  to  smile  too,  that  he 
mightn't  know  what  I  really  felt.  You  can't  tell  how  I  dread  to 
see  him  unhappy  ;  and  yet  I  know  he  must  be  some  day — very 
soon  indeed  now ;  for  I  shan't  be  here  long — I  know  it  quite 
well.'  And  Lisa  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  cried 
again  most  bitterly ;  while  Mary's  own  tears  fell  fast. 

^  If  he  would  only  see  it ! '  Lisa  said  at  last.  *  For  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  never  tell  him — and  yet  I  must.  It  will  make  it  so 
much  worse  for  him  if  he  is  not  told  it  soon.     And  I  should  not 

S 


274  ATHBKSTONE  PRIORY. 

like  any  one  else  to  tell  him — not  even  you,  Mary ;  for  I  think  he 
won't  find  it  so  hard  to  bear  if  he  hears  it  from  me.' 

'  You  had  better   not  try/   Mary   said,    through   her  tears. 

*  Leave  it  to  me,  Lisa  dear.  It  is  time,  as  you  say,  he  knew  it. 
But  you  must  not  try  to  do  it  yourself;  you  are  not  equal  to  it.' 

'  Yes,  I  am,  and  I  would  rather  tell  him.  He  will  feel  it  less, 
I  know,  coming  from  me  ;  and  I  want  to  save  him  as  much  as  I 
can.  O  Mary,  you  don't  know  what  he  has  been  to  me ;  and 
when  I  think  of  leaving  him  and  my  darling  little  baby,  I  feel  as 
if  my  heart  would  break.  And  though  I  ask  to  be  helped  to 
bear  it  patiently,  somehow  I  can't.  It  seems  as  if  I  thought  of 
them  more  and  loved  them  all  the  better  because  I  shall  be  with 
them  such  a  little  time.  I  wish  I  could  feel  differently,  Mary — 
I  wish  I  could  feel  it  is  best  for  me  to  go.' 

Mary  kissed  her  tenderly.  '  And  so  you  will,  dearest.  When 
the  time  comes,  you  will  feel  it  is  right,  and  you  will  be  able 
to  give  them  up ;  though  it  is  so  hard  now.  It  must  have 
been  harder  still  when  you  were  keeping  all  this  to  yourself.  My 
poor  Lisa,  I  wonder  how  you  did  it.' 

*  I    don't    know    now    how  I  did,'   Lisa  said,  with  a  sigh. 

*  And  it  seems  so  very  long  since  I  first  knew  it.  I  have  been 
very  miserable,  Mary  dear.  I  wonder  Percy  never  found  it  out ; 
but  he  guesses  nothing  even  yet.  I  must  tell  him,  though.  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  quite  so  hard,  now  I  have  talked  to  you.' 

*  I  wish  you  would  let  me  do  it/  Mary  said  again.  '  It  would 
save  you  a  great  deal  of  pain,  dear  Lisa.' 

*  Yes,  so  it  would,  perhaps,  but  what  I  want  is  to  save  him. 
A  little  pain  more  or  less  can't  matter  much  now  for  me — it  will 
all  be  over  soon.  But  it  does  matter  for  him ;  he  will  have  to 
bear  it  so  long.  You  will  stay  with  him,  Mary,  won't  you,  and 
try  to  comfort  him?  for  I  know  he'll  be  very  lonely  when  his 
little  Lisa  is  gone.  And  you  will  take  care  of  baby,  too.  She 
won't  want  a  mother  while  you  live,  I  know  that.  It  was  the 
first  thing  I  thought  of  when  I  knew  I  must  go.  I  hope  she 
will  be  a  much  better  child  to  you  than  I  used  to  be.  Ah,  how 
I  wish  those  days  could  come  back  again  !  Do  you  think  they 
are  quite  gone — gone  for  ever  ?  Is  my  life  really  over  1  1  can't 
believe  it ! '  and  her  look  grew  wild  again.  *  Mary,  I  must  live. 
I  can't  die  yet.  Can  nothing  save  me  ? '  She  clung  to  her  cousin 
convulsively. 

Poor  Mary's  agitation  was  extreme,  almost  as  great  as  that  of 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  QUIET  LAND.  275 

tlie  frightened  child  who  held  her  so  beseechingly ;  but  she  strug- 
gled against  her  feelings,  and  after  a  time  her  gentle  soothing 
seemed  to  restore  Lisa  to  some  degree  of  calmness.  Her  convul- 
sive grasp  relaxed,  and  her  passionate  sobs  became  less  violent. 

^  I  know  it 's  wrong,  but  I  can't  help  it.  1  would  give  all  I 
have  for  one  year  more — only  one !  I  have  been  so  very  happy 
the  last  few  months ;  and  it 's  so  hard  to  go  now,  just  when  baby 
is  come.  I  wonder  sometimes  what  makes  me  so  miserable ; 
often  I  wake  in  the  night  and  think  something  has  happened ; 
and  I  look  for  baby,  and  I  look  for  Percy,  and  they  are  both 
there — they  are  safe  and  well ;  it 's  only  myself.  I  remember 
then  how  it  is — that  I  am  dying — that  in  a  very  little  time  I  shall 
not  be  here  any  longer.  0  Mary,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to . 
feel  it.' 

And  shuddering  and  trembling,  she  clung  once  more  to  her 
cousin ;  till,  worn  out  at  last,  she  sank  into  a  kind  of  stupor,  from 
which,  now  that  there  was  no  motive  for  exertion,  she  did  not 
rouse  herself  all  the  morning.  But  the  strain  came  back  when 
Percy  returned ;  and  Mary  was  startled  then  at  the  change  in  her 
manner — the  more  so  because  she  began  to  comprehend  how 
much  the  fever  produced  by  such  unnatural  excitement  musi  all 
along  have  been  consuming  her  little  strength.  That  Percy 
should  know  the  real  state  of  the  case,  and  understand  how  neces- 
sary perfect  quietness  was  that  Lisa's  life  might  be  prolonged  at 
all,  was  now  her  one  wish.  But  Lisa  herself  seemed,  as  she  had 
60  often  done  before,  to  lose  the  courage  to  undeceive  him.  In- 
stead, her  cousin  was  startled  by  hearing  her  prefer  a  most  unex- 
pected request. 

^  I  wish  we  could  go  up  on  the  hill  somewhere,  Percy,'  she  ex- 
claimed, when  something  was  being  said  about  the  heat.  *  I  am 
sure  if  I  could  get  the  breezes  up  there,  I  should  be  much 
stronger.  Couldn't  we  find  some  lodgings  on  the  East  Hill  1  I 
should  like  it  very  much.' 

*  Would  you,  dear  ? '  he  said,  catching  eagerly  at  anything 
to  give  her  pleasure.  *  Then  I  'm  sure  we  '11  go.  I  '11  walk  up 
now — it 's  not  too  late ;  and  then  you  can  go  as  soon  as  you 
please.' 

And  acting  on  the  idea  at  once,  he  set  off  on  his  search. 

*  Ah,  Mary,  you  think  me  very  foolish,'  Lisa  said,  when  he 
was  gone.  *  You  think  it  can  do  no  good.  But  it  can — it  mu^t ; 
it 's  only  fresh  air  I  want.     I  saw  the  elm-trees  at  the  back  of 


276  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY. 

the  house  when  Percy  was  carrying  me  down  this  evening,  and 
they  looked  so  cool  and  breezy !  The  wind  was  tossing  their 
top  boughs  about,  and  then  it  seemed  to  go  playing  off  among 
those  hills ;  and  I  felt  directly  that  if  I  could  go  up  there,  I 
should  be  better.  It  is  worth  trying,  at  any  rate ;  and  if  I  could 
feel  strong  for  a  few  days  only,  I  think  I  should  be  happy.  Mary 
dear,  I  must  go/ 


CHAPTER   XLT. 

BEYOND   RECAL. 

It  was  on  that  same  evening  that  Janet  and  Isabel  returned  from 
a  visit  they  had  been  paying  to  some  friends  for  a  few  days,  and 
the  first  thing  they  heard  from  Mrs  Thorpe  was  an  account  of 
Lisa's  illness  and  danger. 

*  I  have  not  seen  her  myself,'  she  said ;  *  but  I  hear  from  every 
one  how  dreadfully  she  is  altered  lately,  and  I  know  Dr  Mapleston 
says  she  cannot  live  long.  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  nobody  about  her 
seems  to  have  any  idea  how  ill  she  is.  I  don't  believe  she  is 
aware  of  it  herself,  and  I  am  sure  Major  Tennent  is  not.  It  is 
strange  how  he  can  bliHd  himself  in  that  way,  and  a  pity  there 
is  no  one  to  undeceive  him  ;  for  she  is  dying — there  is  no  doubt 
of  it.' 

*  Lisa  dying ! '  The  words  fell  on  Isabel's  ear  with  a  cold 
dull  shock.  Dying — the  cousin  whom  she  had  slighted,  despised, 
and  so  deeply  injured  by  her  false  suspicil>ns — was  she  dying 
before  she  had  been  able  to  repair  the  wrong  she  had  done,  or  to 
efface,  as  she  had  hoped,  by  care  and  affection,  the  memory 
of  many  a  former  unkindness  and  injustice  ?  And  her  brother  ! 
Was  the  happiness  she  had  grudged  him  to  be  so  short- 
lived ?  —  was   his   home  henceforth  to   be   desolate  ?      Surely 


BEYOND  REGAL.  277 

it  could  not  be — tlie  thought  was  too  dreadful.  There  was 
some  mistake,  and  so  she  would  find.  Mary  must  know ; 
and  Mary  had  written  to  her  during  her  absence,  and  had 
not  hinted  at  such  fears  as  those  of  which  Mrs  Thorpe  spoke. 
She  could  not  be  deceived  too ;  and  so  thinking,  Isabel  tried  to 
put  away  the  miserable  misgivings  that  came  crowding  over  her. 
But  she  could  not  lose  them;  all  night  long,  during  hours  of 
wakefulness,  Lisa's  face  was  before  her.  She  saw  it  shadowed 
by  a  mournfulness  which  was  exaggerated  by  the  silence  and  soli- 
tude around;  and  if  for  a  few  minutes  she  lost  the  recollection  of 
it  in  sleep,  it  was  only  to  dream  of  her  cousin  as  she  had  been  in 
days  gone  by,  full  of  life  and  loveliness ;  and  then  to  awake  again 
to  remember  that  she  was  dying. 

She  went  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning  pale  and  un- 
rested ;  and  Janet  was  not  long  in  remarking  her  looks. 

'You  are  thinking  of  poor  Lisa,  I  suppose,'  she  said;  'but  I 
can't  help  hoping  there  is  some  mistake.  We  will  go  down  to 
the  cottage  after  luncheon,  and  see  her.* 

'  After  luncheon  !  I  am  going  now,'  Isabel  said.  '  I  shall  go 
directly  breakfast  is  over.' 

Janet  looked  surprised,  but  she  said  nothing;  and  half  an  hour 
after,  Isabel  had  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  was  on  her  road  to  the 
cottage. 

It  was  another  sultry  day — even  the  trees  in  the  lane  could 
not  keep  off  the  heat,  and  the  sea  lay  so  still  that  the  break  of 
its  waves  on  the  beach  was  scarcely  heard  to  bring  a  sound  of 
freshness  to  the  ear.  Among  its  sheltering  trees  and  shrubs  the 
cottage  stood,  cheerful  and  pretty-looking  as  ever — its  green 
creepers  twining  over  it — the  sunlight  basking  round  it — its  gay 
garden  beautiful  with  summer  flowers.  No  outward  signs  there 
of  the  change  that  had  come  upon  it — nothing  to  tell  of  the 
young  life  that  was  ebbing  away  within  its  walls.  On  the  gravel 
walk  before  the  house  Prince  was.  lying  half  asleep,  and  under 
the  shade  of  the  large  acacia  on  the  lawn  Mary  was  at  work  with 
the  baby  on  her  knee.  Everything  was  quiet  and  home-like,  but 
upon  Isabel's  heart  there  was  a  weight  like  lead,  and  when  she 
joined  her  sister,  she  could  not  speak;  she  knelt  by  her  side 
in  silence,  gazing  long  and  sadly  at  the  sleeping  child. 

'  I  have  brought  her  here  to  be  out  of  Lisa's  way,'  Mary  said. 
'  Lane  is  busy  packing,  for  we  are  going  up  to  the  East  Hill  for  a 
few  days.     Percy  has  taken  a  lodging  there/  she  added.     *  Li?ia 


278  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

wished  to  go — she  thought  the  change  would  do  her  good ;  but 
— she  is  very  ill  now.' 

*And  you  never  told  me,  Mary,'  Isabel  faltered.  'I  knew 
nothing  of  it ;  oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?'  in  a  tone  of 
reproach. 

^  I  couldn^t^  dear ;  I  hardly  knew  it  myself.  And  Percy  does 
not  know  it  even  yet — he  still  thinks  she  is  getting  better.  I 
don't  know  how  he  will  bear  it,'  she  added  with  a  sigh.  *  I 
dare  not  think  of  what  it  will  be  to  hira — he  is  so  wrapped  up 
in  her  !' 

Wrapped  up  in  her !  Yes ;  Isabel  knew  that  —  she  could 
guess  something  of  the  dreariness  and  desolation  that  must  be 
his  lot  when  his  wife  was  gone;  and  she  shrank  from  the  thought 
that  the  untold  bitterness  of  such  sorrow  must  in  some  measure 
be  laid  at  her  door. 

'  Can  I  see  Lisa  V  she  said  at  last,  getting  up.  She  was  very 
pale,  but  Mary  was  too  busy  with  the  child,  that  was  moving 
uneasily  in  its  sleep,  to  notice  her. 

*  Yes  ;  she  is  in  her  own  room  resting.  But  don't  stay  long 
with  her,  dear  Isabel ;  she  is  not  strong  enough  to  talk  much, 
and  she  is  very  tired  ;  she  had  hardly  any  sleep  last  night.' 

*I  won't  stay  many  minutes,'  Isabel  said,  in  a  low,  husky 
voice  ;  and  she  walked  away  with  slow  and  hesitating  steps,  very 
unlike  her  usual  decided  tread  and  lofty  bearing. 

Slowly  she  went  up-stairs,  and  as  slowly  she  approached  her 
cousin's  room — the  door  of  which  stood  open  ;  but  when  she 
reached  its  threshold,  she  paused — uncertainty  of  what  her  recep- 
tion might  be  keeping  her  back.  Lisa  was  not  resting,  as  Mary 
supposed ;  she  was  sitting  on  her  sofa  near  the  window — her 
head  upon  her  arms,  which  were  folded  on  a  table  that  was 
drawn  up  beside  her,  and  her  attitude  told  most  painfully  of 
utter  abandonment  to  grief.  As  Isabel  paused,  she  heard  a  low 
sob  break  from  her,  and  saw  her  shiver  from  head  to  foot  in  the 
agony  of  suppressed  anguish.  Nor  was  it  hard  to  guess  the 
cause  of  that  sorrow ;  for  before  her  stood  her  empty  dressing- 
case,  and  around  her  lay  all  her  treasures,  which  she  had  evidently 
just  taken  from  it.  All  the  things  she  most  prized  were  there — 
a  strange  medley,  but  which  none  who  knew  Lisa  would  have 
been  surprised  to  see  collected  together.  There  were  letters, 
and  these  she  had  been  sorting  and  tying  together ;  there  were 
relics  of  childish  days — a  broken  silver  bodkin-case,  some  coloured 


BEYOND  REGAL.  279 

beads,  and  a  little  ivory  box,  yellow  with,  age  j  and  there  was  a 
sprig,  too,  of  faded  heather,  gathered  in  one  of  her  long  rides 
with  Percy,  when  she  had  been  staying  at  Copelands  the  year 
before ;  and  some  sketches  she  had  made  with  him  at  the  same 
time.  Her  mother's  locket,  also,  and  all  her  own  ornaments 
were  there — some  of  them  wedding  presents,  but  the  greater 
number  her  husband's  gifts.  She  had  spread  them  all  before  her, 
and  from  the  care  with  which  they  were  arranged  it  was  evident 
she  had  had  a  purpose  in  so  doing.  But  strength  or  courage  had 
failed  her  before  her  task  was  completed.  She  had  broken  down 
when  looking  at  the  coral  ornaments  Percy  had  given  her  when 
they  were  abroad,  and  which  Isabel  well  remembered  her  having 
shown  with  so  much  glee  to  herself  and  Elinor,  on  their  first  visit 
to  the  cottage.  Her  fingers  were  fast  clasped  round  one  of  the 
bracelets,  and  although  her  face  was  scarcely  seen,  her  agony  of 
grief  was  so  plainly  visible  that  Isabel  shrank  from  witnessing 
it,  and  would  have  turned  to  leave  her  to  herself  again,  but  the 
power  to  move  seemed  gone.  She  felt  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot, 
and  stood  with  her  eyes  riveted  on  that  slight  drooping  figure — 
on  those  thin  fingers,  and  the  wasted  outline  of  that  half-hidden 
face,  so  changed  now  from  all  its  old  girlish  beauty. 

But  Lisa  raised  her  head  at  length — her  passion  of  grief  was 
over — her  fingers  relaxed  their  convulsive  grasp,  and  she  sat  up. 
And  then,  with  a  rush  of  overpowering  feelings,  Isabel  fully 
realised  the  truth  of  all  that  her  worst  forebodings  could  have 
predicted  for  her  cousin.  The  unnaturally  transparent  complexion 
and  brilliant  eye — the  hollow  cheek  with  the  bright  hectic  flush 
on  it,  and  the  parched  and  burning  lips,  told  a  tale  too  plain  to 
be  mistaken.  A  glass  of  water  stood  on  the  table  beside  her,  and 
she  took  and  drank  it  eagerly,  and  then  turned  as  if  to  look  for 
more.  As  she  did  so,  her  eye  fell  upon  Isabel,  and  she  started ; 
but  more  from  surprise,  apparently,  at  finding  she  was  not  alone, 
as  she  had  thought,  than  from  any  other  cause.  She  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  how  long  it  was  since  they  had  met — how  little 
cause  she  had  to  hope  for  any  pleasure  in  seeing  her  cousin. 
She  held  out  her  glass  wistfully. 

'  Will  you  get  me  some  more  V  she  said.  *  There  is  none  here; 
and  I  am  so  thirsty.' 

She  sank  back,  and  eagerly,  hurriedly,  Isabel  came  forward 
and  took  the  glass  from  her  hand.  To  be  able  to  do  anything 
for  the  dying  girl  whom  then  she  would  have  gone  hundreds  of 


280  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY. 

miles  to  serve,  was  more,  she  thought,  than  she  deserved,  and 
quickly  she  went  away  upon  her  errand,  and  then  returned  to 
sit  doAvn  by  her  cousin's  side  while  she  once  more  drank  off  with 
feverish  avidity  the  refreshing  draught. 

*  Thank  you — I  am  so  thirsty,'  she  repeated,  'so  tired  this 
morning.  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night,  and  we  are  going  away  this 
afternoon.  I  was  trying — Ah,  I  had  forgotten ;'  and  she  glanced 
at  the  things  upon  the  table,  and  then  at  her  cousin,  and  her  look 
grew  uneasy.  *  You  don't  know — you  have  been  away.  Besides,' 
in  a  lower  tone,  and  the  w^ords  added  another  pang  to  Isabel's 
self-reproaches,  *  it  is  nothing  to  you.' 

*  Nothing  to  me,  Lisa  1' 

*  No,  nothing  to  j^ou.  Why  should  it  be  ?  You  never  cared 
for  me,  and  it  will  be  nothing  to  you  when  I  am  gone — gone 
for  ever,'  and  she  shuddered.  And  then  altering  her  tone, 
'  I  am  very  ill,  Isabel,'  she  added ;  *  very  ill  indeed.  But  I 
have  asked  Percy  to  take  me  up  on  the  hill  for  a  little  time, 
and  surely,  when  I  am  once  there,  I  shall  get  better.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  I  want  to  live — oh,  so  much,  so  very  much !' 
Her  eyes  were  turned  beseechingly,  imploringly  to  Isabel's 
face ;  but  only  for  a  moment.  A  tide  of  recollections  seemed  to 
come  back  with  that  look,  and  she  turned  away  and  burst  into 
tears. 

*  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  indeed,'  she  murmured.  *  I  must  not 
talk  to  you.  You  can't  feel  for  me,  for  I  have  only  stood  in  your 
way.  I  took  him  from  you.  But  you  will  have  him  back  soon 
now.  I  shall  not  keep  him  much  longer,  and  then  you  can 
forget  me — forget  I  ever  lived.  And  I — oh !  my  happiness  is 
soon  over,  Isabel — you  need  not  have  grudged  it  me  for  so  short 
a  time.  I  am  only  seventeen,  but  I  am  dying — yes,  dying,'  she 
said  piteously.  *I  would  give  worlds,  if  I  had  them,  to  live  a 
little  longer.  I  don't  want  to  die  just  yet.  I  have  been  very 
happy  j  and  the  grave  is  dark  and  cold.  I  am  afraid  to  be  there 
alone.  I  like  the  warmth  and  the  sunlight,  and  the  w^orld  is 
very  beautiful  to  me;  I  don't  want  to  leave  it.  But  I  know  I 
must.  Yes,'  she  added  passionately,  *  I  know  my  life  will  soon 
be  over — that  in  a  very  little  while  there  wdll  come  a  day  when 
the  sun  will  be  as  bright  and  the  birds  wdll  sing  as  they  are 
singing  now,  and  the  sea  will  come  washing  up  here*  against 
the  garden  wall  as  it  always  does,  and  everything  wdll  be  the 
same;   but  I  shall  not   see  and   hear  it   all.      And    you  will 


BEYOND  RECAL.  281 

all  live  and  love  and  be  happy,  and  no  one  will  ever  think  of 
me.  None  will  remember  me — remember  that  I,  too,  was  happy 
once!' 

She  stopped,  for  Isabel,  who  had  been  in  vain  struggling  to 
speak  and  to  stem  that  torrent  of  despairing  grief,  now  suddenly 
burst  into  tears — the  first  tears  Lisa  ever  remembered  to  have 
seen  her  shed. 

'  You  are  not  crying  for  me,  Isabel,  are  you  1  Oh,  no ;  for  I 
am  nothing  to  you — I  never  was.  All  those  years  I  lived  at  the 
Priory  you  never  cared  for  me;  and  when  I  was  lonely  and  sad 
because  I  had  no  home  of  my  own,  you  wouldn't  let  me  be  your 
sister.  I  hoped  when  you  knew  Percy  cared  for  me  and  thought 
me  good  enough  to  be  his  wife,  you  would  love  me  too.  But 
you  did  not — you  thought  I  had  no  right  to  take  him  from  you. 
And  now  I  must  leave  him.  But — O  Percy,  is  it  really  true  ? — • 
must  I  really  go  1  Mayn't  I  stay  a  little  longer  1 '  Here  grief 
and  excitement  overcame  her,  and  her  strength  failing  suddenly, 
her  head  drooped  upon  the  cushion  on  which  she  was  resting, 
and  she  fainted  away. 

She  came  to  herself  to  find  Lane  standing  over  her  with  cold 
water  and  hartshorn,  and  Isabel  kneeling  by  her  side  holding 
one  of  her  hands  in  hers.  Too  weak  and  confused  to  remem- 
ber what  had  happened,  she  closed  her  eyes  again  with  a  w^eary 
sigh;  but  when  consciousness  returned  more  fully,  her  first 
movement  was  to  draw  away  her  hand  and  turn  from  her  cousin 
with  a  look  in  w^hich  shrinking  and  reproach  were  mingled. 

^  Leave  me,  please,'  she  said  faintly.  *  I  am  so  ill;  I  can't 
talk  now.' 

'  Won't  you  let  me  stay  1  *  Isabel  said  pleadingly.  *  I  won't 
talk  if  you  don't  "wish  it;  but  let  me  stay  and  sit  with  you.' 

*No;'  there  was  a  shiver — almost  a  shudder  as  she  spoke. 
*  01),  do  leave  me.     I  want  to  be  alone.' 

Isabel  rose.  How  could  she  wonder  her  cousin  shrank  from 
her  1  It  was  only,  she  thought,  part  of  her  punishment  for 
former  neglect  and  unkindness.  But  it  was  hard  to  leave  her 
then — to  go  without  having  been  able  to  express  one  word  of 
sorrow,  or  ask  for  forgiveness  of  that  past  which  she  would  have 
given  so  much  to  recal.  Slowly  and  sadly  she  w^ent  away,  and 
there  was  a  sigh  of  relief  from  Lisa  as  the  door  closed  upon 
her. 

*■  Don't    let  her    come    again,   Mary,'  she    said    afterwards. 


283  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  You  don't  know  how  it  makes  me  feel  to  see  her.  For  she 
never  cared  for  me.  And  she  is  strong  and  well;  f.he  cannot 
guess  what  it  is  to  be  as  I  am — to  know  that  a  little  time  ago  I 
was  like  her — so  well,  so  happy;  and  now  to  wake  up  every 
morning  with  the  thought  that  I  have  only  a  few  days  more  left 
to  live.  My  happy  home,  and  Percy,  and  my  baby — I  must 
leave  them  all  1 '  And  she  hung  over  the  child  upon  her  knee 
in  an  agony  of  grief  which  no  efforts  of  Mary's  could  calm. 

They  took  her  up  to  the  hill,  and  there  at  first  she  seemed  to 
be  better;  but  it  was  only  for  a  day  or  two,  and  before  a  week 
was  over  she  was  pining  to  be  back  in  her  own  home.  She 
missed  the  hundred  little  things  in  which  she  had  always  taken 
so  much  delight — the  garden,  the  shade  of  the  acacia-trees,  and 
the  sound  of  the  waves  upon  the  shore ;  and  after  all,  she  thought 
there  was  very  little  more  air  upon  the  high  ground  than  lower 
down. 

'  I  don't  care,  too,  for  these  hills,'  she  said.  *  They  are  not 
like  ours  at  Atherstone,  Percy.  You  remember  them,  don't 
you  1  You  remember  where  we  used  to  ride  last  year,  in  those 
happy,  happy  days  1  Do  you  recollect  the  purple  heather  on  the 
moors,  and  the  old  grey  rocks,  and  the  little  streams  running 
through  the  valleys  ]  How  bright  the  sunlight  was  then  !  how 
it  used  to  quiver  and  gleam  so  hot  all  over  the  country  !  and  how 
pleasant  and  green  the  woods  looked !  We  have  nothing  of  that 
sort  here.  It  is  very  beautiful,  I  know — the  cliffs  are  very 
grand,  and  the  sea  is  lovely;  but  I  like  it  better  from  our  own 
house,  and  we  have  more  shade  there.  I  am  tired  of  this  place. 
Take  me  home,  please.' 

So  they  took  her  home — to  the  home  she  was  never  more  to 
leave ;  and  then  with  her  return  came  an  end  to  all  the  restless 
longings  and  strivings  for  life — to  that  intense  desire  to  '  live  a 
little  longer'  which  had  preyed  upon  her  so  unceasingly..  She 
had  been  like  a  bird  in  a  snare  struggling  wildly  against  its 
fate;  but  better  and  calmer  thoughts  came  now.  Despair  was 
gone,  and  she  grew  patient  and  quiet.  Her  own  will  was  given 
up  to  a  Higher;  and  as  she  learned  to  yield  it  more  fully,  hope 
and  comfort  dawned  upon  her. 

*  I  am  come  back  here  to  die,  Mary,'  she  said.  *  I  know  it 
quite  well,  but  I  can  think  of  it  now.  I  can  bear  to  go.  It  'a 
not  so  hard  as  it  used  to  be  to  think  of  leaving  you  all;  and 
when  the  time  comes,  perhaps  it  won't  be  hard  at  all.     And  you 


BEYOND  REGAL.  283 

will  talk  to  me,  won't  you,  Mary  dear  1  Talk  to  me,  please,  as 
you  did  when  I  was  a  little  child — when  you  used  to  tell  me 
what  was  right,  and  wanted  me  to  do  it.  I  am  not  frightened 
then ;  and  when  I  lie  awake  at  night,  or  am  alone  in  the  day,  I 
think  of  what  you  have  said,  and  I  don't  feel  afraid  as  I  used. 
And  I  '11  tell  Percy  now.  I  couldn't  before,  while  I  was  always 
hoping  and  longing  to  live.  But  now  I  will — I  '11  tell  him  every- 
thing. And,  Mary  dear,  I  should  like  to  see  Isabel  again.  I 
don't  think  I  was  kind  to  her  when  she  was  here;  and  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  I  wish  I  could  see  her  and  say  good-bye  to  her. 
Do  you  think  she  will  come  1 ' 

*  I  am  sure  she  will,  dear.  She  came  up  every  day  while  we 
were  on  the  East  Hill  to  ask  after  you;  and  she  was  here 
again  this  morning,  and  wished  very  much  to  see  you,  only 
she  didn't  like  to  ask,  as  you  said  you  didn't  wish  it.  But 
you  may  not  have  another  opportunity,  for  she  is  going  home 
to-morrow ' 

'  Going  home !  Back  to  Atherstone  1 '  Lisa's  face  flushed. 
*  0  Mary  ! '  and  there  was  a  long-drawn  sigh  and  a  look  of 
unutterable  sadness  on  her  face.  ^  What  wouldn't  I  give  if  I 
were  going  with  her  1  I  used  to  think  so  much  about  it  when 
Percy  first  talked  of  taking  me  there.  I  thought  it  would  be 
such  pleasure  to  go  back  and  see  every  one  again — such  pleasure 
to  take  baby  with  me  and  show  her  to  them  all.  And  now  to 
think  I  shall  never  go  ! '  She  sat  for  some  minutes  silent ;  her 
varying  colour  and  the  tears  which  filled  her  eyes,  though  she 
would  not  let  them  fall,  telling  of  the  struggle  within — one  of 
her  last  struggles  to  yield  submission  cheerfully  to  that  Higher 
Will  than  her  own.  A  hard-fonght  battle  it  was,  like  many 
another  she  had  then  to  fight;  but  it  was  won  at  length,  and  she 
looked  up  quietly. 

'  Yes ;  it 's  all  best  for  me  as  it  is.  I  know  that,  and  I  '11  try 
and  feel  it.  And,  Mary  dear,  will  you  write  a  little  note  to 
Isabel  and  ask  her  to  come  some  time  to-day  and  say  good-bye 
to  meV 

Mary's  note  went ;  and  that  afternoon  Isabel  came  down  to 
the  cottage.  She  found  Lisa  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  on  the 
sofa  as  usual.  As  the  door  opened,  she  turned  round  with  a 
smile.  Perhaps  she  was  expecting  Percy,  for  when  she  saw  only 
her  cousin,  her  face  changed  a  little,  and  the  colour  came  into 
her  pale  cheeks. 


284  ATHERSTONE  PRIOPvY. 

*  0  Isabel !'  She  looked  very  shy,  and  Isabel  herself,  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt  the  same.  But  Lisa  held  out  her 
hand,  and  she  came  forward. 

^  Mary  said  you  wished  to  see  me,*  she  murmured  in  a  tone  of 
apology,  as  if  she  thought  she  had  no  right  to  be  there.  *  She 
asked  me  to  come.' 

'  Yes;'  and  Lisa  looked  shyer  than  before;  but  she  made  an 
effort  to  shake  off  her  constraint.  'It's  very  kind  of  you  to 
come,  Isabel,'  she  added  gratefully.  *  After  what  I  said  the 
other  day  I  was  afraid  perhaps  you  wouldn't.  And  I  wanted  to 
see  you  to — to  say  good-bye ;'  her  voice  faltered  a  little.  *  I  sha'n't 
see  you  again  ;  and  I  didn't  know  you  were  going  home  so  soon.' 

There  was  a  silence,  for  Isabel  was  struggling  for  self-control; 
and  Lisa,  not  understanding  the  expression  of  her  face,  hesitated 
for  a  moment. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  said  some  things  to  you  the  other  morning 
that  were  not  very  kind,'  she  went  on,  after  a  pause.  *  That  was 
another  reason  why  I  wanted  to  see  you — to  tell  you  I  am  very 
sorry,  and  to  ask  you  to  forget  them  all.  Do  you  think  you  can, 
Isabel,  as  I  shall  never  see  you  again  ?  I  know  I  have  done  a 
great  many  things  you  didn't  like ;  but  if  you  could  forgive  me, 
it  would  make  me  very  happy.' 

'0  Lisa!'  Isabel's  attempts  at  self-control  were  gone  now, 
and  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her  cousin.  *  It  is  I 
who  have  to  be  forgiven.  I  have  been  unkind  and  unjust  to 
you — not  only  now,  but  ever  since  I  first  knew  you.'  And  in  a 
passion  of  grief,  with  many  bitter  tears,  she  poured  forth  a  con- 
fession of  all  her  long-cherished  jealous  feelings ;  and  forgetful 
of  pride  and  reserve,  told  of  her  remorse  and  late-awakened  re- 
pentance in  terms  of  the  most  bitter  sorrow  and  self-upbraiding. 
*  Lisa,'  she  said,  '  I  never  tried  to  care  for  you,  or  to  see  the  best 
of  you.  I  was  always  looking  out  for  your  faults,  and  wish- 
ing to  find  you  in  the  wrong ;  and  it  was  tliat  made  me  so  miser- 
ably suspicious  and  unjust  this  last  time.  I  never  even  hoped. 
it  might  be  a  mistake,  because  I  didn't  wish  it  to  be  one.  If  I 
had,  I  should  have  done  things  in  a  different  way ;  and  then, 
most  probably,  the  truth  would  have  come  out  much  sooner  than 
it  did ;  or  rather  you  would  never  have  been  suspected  at  all. 
For  it  was  my  doing,'  she  added  vehemently — *  it  was  all  my 
doing.  It  was  through  me  others  suspected  you — through  me 
that  Percy  doubted  you.      Yes,'  as  she  noticed  Lisa's  sudden 


BEYOND  REGAL.  285 

start  and  flush  ;  *  lie  would  have  known  nothing  of  it  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me.     Did  he  never  tell  you  that?' 

'  No,  never/  Lisa's  head  was  down,  and  her  face  averted 
now. 

'  I  thought  you  knew  it ; '  and  the  colour  in  IsabePs  face 
faded  away,  and  she  grew  very  pale.  *  Well,  you  know  it  now/ 
she  added  with  an  effort.  *  And  you  can't  forgive  me — I  see 
that — nor  have  I  any  right  to  expect  you  should.  But  at  least 
I  can  tell  you  I  am  sorry  for  it — tliat  I  would  give  all  I  have  to 
be  able  to  undo  it.  I  thought,  I  hoped  once  I  could  have  shown 
you ' she  burst  into  tears. 

And  Lisa  was  touched  at  once.  There  had  been  a  hard 
struggle  within  her  when  she  heard  that  all  the  misery  she 
had  endured  from  being  doubted  by  her  husband  had  been  owing 
to  her  cousin  ;  and  for  a  moment  she  had  been  sorely  tempted  to 
turn  away  with  the  words  of  forgiveness  unspoken.  But  better 
feelings  prevailed.  In  that  land  to  which  she  was  fast  hasten- 
ing there  would  be  no  remembrance  of  wrong  done — no  hard, 
bitter  thoughts  of  others ;  and  could  she  give  way  to  them  now^ 
She  raised  her  head ;  and  as  her  cousin  still  knelt  by  her  side, 
she  stooped  forward  and  threw  her  arms  round  her  neck. 

*  Dear  Isabel,  never  mind  it  now — never  mind  the  past.  It 's  all 
gone,  and  w^e  will  never  think  of  it  again.  Don't  cry  so — don't  be 
so  sorry,  please.  It  is  better  for  me  as  it  is.  I  shall  be  very  happy ; 
and  you  must  forget  all  I  ever  did  to  make  you  think  so  badly 
of  me,  and  only  remember  that  at  the  last  we  loved  each  other 
very  much.  Will  you  kiss  me,  and  let  me  feel  we  have  forgiven 
each  other  everything/' 

An  hour  afterwards  and  Isabel  had  left  that  room  for  ever ; 
she  had  passed  for  the  last  time  the  threshold  of  the  home  of 
which  her  miserable  jealousy  had  blighted  the  happiness.  A  few 
months  before,  she  had  first  entered  those  doors,  and  had  met 
her  cousin  there,  gay,  bright,  and  beautiful,  with  all  the  hopes 
and  pleasures  of  life  about  her.  Now  those  hopes  and  pleasures 
were  over,  and  the  once  happy  girl  whom  she  had  envied  and 
wronged  was  passing  away  in  her  spring-tide  to  the  silence  and 
rest  of  the  grave.  She  paused  for  long  at  the  little  garden  gate 
before  she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  take  her  last  look  at  a 
place  round  which  so  many  painful  associations  had  gathered ; 
and  then  she  went  her  way  dow^n  the  shady  lane,  thinking  with 
bitter  sorrow  of  all  she  had  missed  and  lost  since  that  bright 


286  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

April  day  when  she  had  first  trodden  that  path.  When,  years 
afterwards,  she  next  passed  the  cottage,  it  looked  as  pleasant  and 
sunny  as  ever  among  its  shrubs  and  flowers ;  but  strangers  then 
were  living  there.  Lisa's  name  was  forgotten ;  and  Percy,  in  a 
foreign  land,  had  long  been  left  to  mourn  in  loneliness  his 
'  broken  household  chain ' — his  severed  ties. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

AT  BEST. 


Happily  for  Lisa  she  was  spared  the  pain  of  speaking  to  Percy 
while  he  was  yet  unprepared  for  what  was  coming.  The  oppres- 
sively hot  weather  that  had  now  set  in  told  very  fast  upon  her 
failing  strength ;  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  any  longer  to 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  she  was  every  day  becoming  weaker, 
and  more  unequal  to  exertion  of  any  kind.  She  was  still  carried 
down-stairs,  but  it  was  only  to  lie  exhausted  on  the  sofa,  unable 
to  occupy  herself  in  any  way ;  and  a  succession  of  long  fainting 
fits,  which  she  had  one  day,  and  from  which  it  was  found  diffi- 
cult to  recover  her,  seemed  fully  to  undeceive  him.  In  spite  of 
all  his  endeavours  to  conceal  his  alarm,  Lisa  was  conscious  that 
he  then  in  some  measure  realised  the  true  extent  of  her  danger. 
But  perhaps  he  still  hoped  to  deceive  her  by  speaking  cheerfully. 
*  I  don't  believe  Mapleston  understands  your  case,'  he  said 
that  same  evening,  when  she  was  better  again,  and  he  was  sitting 
by  her  side.  *  I  shall  write  to  my  father  by  this  night's  post,  and 
ask  if  he  can't  spare  a  day  or  two  again  to  get  down  and  see 
you.  Or  if  he  can't  come,  I  '11  have  some  London  advice.  It  is 
only  the  change  you  want ;  and  we  will  see  if  we  can't  take  you 
to  Atherstone  at  once.  You  would  like  that,  dearest,  wouldn't 
you  ? '  he  added,  trying  to  smile. 


AT  REST.  287 

But  there  was  no  answer — only  Lisa's  eyes  filled  witli  tears ; 
and  then  Mary  saw  by  her  wistful  look  that  she  would  like  to  be 
alone  with  him,  and  gathering  up  her  work,  she  stole  away. 
When  the  door  closed  upon  her,  Lisa  turned  to  him  as  he  sat 
watching  her  uneasily. 

'  Dear  Percy,  will  you  come  a  little  nearer — yes,  quite  near, 
please ',  for  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  have  known  a  long,  long  time ;  and  what  I  almost  think 
you  know  too,  only  you  don't  wish  to  believe  it.  Ah,  yes  ;  I  see 
you  do,'  as  his  face  changed.  ^  You  know  I  shall  never  get  well — 
that  I  shall  never  go  to  Atherstone  again,  or  any  other  place.  You 
know  well  enough  that  your  little  Lisa  won't  be  with  you  ver}^ 
long ;  and,  Percy,  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it,  please. 
Will  you  let  me,  and  not  let  us  try  to  think  any  more  what  isn't 
true  ] ' 

There  was  no  reply.  His  face  was  turned  away,  and  when 
Lisa,  after  a  long  silence,  ventured  to  pull  down  the  hand  which 
shaded  it,  she  was  shocked  and  startled  by  its  expression. 

*  O  Percy !  don't  look  like  that — please  don't.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
you.  Won't  you  look  at  me  as  you  always  do  ?  Won't  you  try 
and  not  mind  it  so  very  much,  that  we  may  not  be  unhappy  the 
little  time  we  shall  be  together  ?  It  won't  be  long  now  that  I 
shall  be  with  you.  Won't  you  make  me  happy  while  I  am? 
There  are  things  I  have  been  waiting  to  say  to  you.  Won't  you 
let  me  talk  to  you,  and  tell  you  all  I  want  ? ' 

There  was  no  answer  again — only  a  long  and  passionate 
embrace,  as  if  he  would  have  held  her  fast,  and  defied  any 
power  in  heaven  or  earth  to  separate  them;  but  the  thought 
how  utterly  unable  he  was  to  protect  her  from  that  unseen  silent 
foe,  who  was  so  surely  though  slowly  stealing  between  them, 
seemed  to  come  upon  him.  His  hold  loosened,  and  she  felt  his 
hot  scalding  tears  fall  upon  her  hand. 

*  It  is  my  doing,'  he  murmured.  '  If  it  had  not  been  for  me, 
you  would  have  been  well  and  happy  now.  O  Lisa !  what 
have  I  done  1 ' 

Lisa  looked  at  him  sadly,  and  with  something  half  of  re- 
proach in  her  large  eyes.  *  I  thought — I  hoped  you  had  forgotten 
all  that,  Percy.  It  was  not  your  fault ;  I  have  never  thought  so. 
I  wish  you  would  promise  me,  when  I  am  gone  never  to  blame 
yourself  for  anything  that  happened  then.  Won't  you  promise 
me  so  ?     It  will  make  me  so  happy  if  you  will.' 


288  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  I  can't,  Lisa/  he  said  in  a  stifled  voice.  '  I  can't  make  such 
a  promise  as  that,  for  I  couldn't  keep  it.  No,  my  darling  ^ — 
seeing  her  disappointed  look — *I  can't  promise  that,  even  for 
you ;  but  I  will  remember  you  never  blamed  me  for  it,  and  that 
you  forgave  me  all  my  harshness  and  unlcindness.  Won't  that 
satisfy  you,  dearest  ? ' 

She  smiled  a  little.  *  It  isn't  quite  true,  Percy,  because  I 
never  felt  I  had  anything  to  forgive.  But  you  shall  think  it  if 
you  like — if  it  will  make  you  happier.  And  now  we  have  settled 
that,  may  we  forget  it  quite  ]  Let  us  think  only  of  pleasant 
things,  and  let  us  be  as  happy  as  we  can  while  we  are  together. 
It  is  much  harder  to  bear  when  I  see  you  miserable,  I  feel 
then  as  if  I  couldn't  go;  though  I  know  so  well  I  must.  Won't 
you  help  to  make  it  easier  for  me,  and  not  let  our  last  days 
together  be  sad  ones  1 ' 

Poor  Percy  !  The  words  fell  on  his  ear  as  if  they  had  been 
her  death-knell.  He  had  known  before  that  he  was  losing  her — 
lie  felt  it  now;  and  the  anguish  of  that  moment,  when  he  first 
realised  that  his  idolised  young  wife  was  dying,  was  bitter 
beyond  all  that  words  could  tell.  The  thought  of  so  soon  seeing 
the  last  of  one  whom  he  worshipped  with  such  adoring  love — of 
shutting  away  for  ever  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  grave 
the  grace  and  beauty  of  wlach  he  was  so  proud — of  having  no 
more  of  the  fond  deep  affection,  and  many  loving  words  and 
ways  which  had  been  the  charm  of  his  life, — all  came  upon  him; 
and  with  it  such  a  dreary  aching  sense  of  desolation,  as  imagina- 
tion pictured  the  long  years  of  loneliness  before  him,  that  for  a 
moment,  overcome  by  the  strong  agony  of  his  grief,  he  sobbed 
aloud.     But  Lisa's  look  of  piteous  distress  stopped  him. 

*  Don't,  Percy,  don't ! '  she  exclaimed,  in  such  imploring  ac- 
cents that  he  was  calm  at  once.  '  You  don't  know  how  hard  it 
makes  it,'  she  murmured,  as  he  drew  her  closer  to  him.  '  I 
want  so  much  to  feel  that  it 's  right  and  best  I  should  go.  Won't 
you  help  me  '? ' 

Her  voice  of  piteous  entreaty  was  not  to  be  resisted.  He 
could  not  speak,  but  he  caught  the  hand  she  was  raising  to  wipe 
away  his  tears,  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  Perhaps  she  under- 
stood the  silent  compact  which  that  action  seemed  to  seal,  for 
her  look  of  distress  passed  away;  and  as  he  still  held  it  in  his,  she 
smiled  again  a  little. 
.  *  Thank  you,  I  knew  you  would.     We  will  talk  together,  and 


AT  REST.  289 

we'll  learn  to  bear  it  patiently  and  give  each  other  up.  And  we 
won't  be  unhappy  for  the  very  little  time  I  shall  have  here  now; 
will  we  ? ' 

Percy's  long-drawn,  heart-wrung  sigh  was  hardly  an  answer, 
and  it  told  a  bitter  tale  of  anguish  and  self-reproach;  but  the 
power  of  perfect  unselfish  love  is  strong,  and  she  never  again 
saw  or  heard  from  him  any  expressions  of  the  grief  she  had  so 
much  dreaded  to  witness.  For  her  sake  he  controlled  his  sor- 
row, and,  whatever  he  endured  in  secret,  in  her  presence  was 
always  calm  and  even  cheerful;  till  Mary,  who  better  than  any 
one  knew  the  full  strength  of  his  fiery  impulsive  nature,  mar- 
velled at  the  amount  of  self-restraint  which  he  exercised.  Hard 
as  he  found  it  to  preserve  this  self-control,  it  must  have  been  a 
comfort  to  him  afterwards  to  know  that,  by  doing  so,  he  had 
spared  Lisa  much  pain,  and  made  the  short  remainder  of  her 
stay  as  happy  as  he  could.  Those  last  few  days  (and  they  were 
very  few)  were,  as  she  had  hoped,  not  altogether  sad — there  was 
much  to  soften  their  bitterness.  The  worst,  indeed,  to  her 
seemed  over  when  there  was  no  longer  need  for  concealment 
from  him.  When  she  could  talk  to  him — when  she  could  tell 
liim  what  she  thought  and  wished  and  hoped — the  last  remains  of 
her  restlessness  and  all  wild  yearnings  for  life  passed  away  for 
ever.  She  was  not  like  the  same  Lisa  then,  who  before,  with  all 
her  loving  ways,  had  had  so  much  of  impatience,  caprice,  and 
petulance  about  her.  She  was  very  patient  now,  very  gentle, 
and  very  grateful  for  every  little  thing  that  was  done  for  her ; 
her  chief  thought  seeming  to  be  to  save  those  about  her  as  much 
trouble  as  possible.  Her  merry,  child-like  laugh  was  gone  now, 
never  to  be  heard  again ;  but  her  smile  was  still  there,  and  if 
not  so  bright  as  it  had  once  been,  there  was  even  more  sweetness 
in  it;  and  never  more  so  than  when  she  welcomed  Percy's  return 
home  each  day.  How  he  prized  those  smiles,  it  would  be  hard 
to  say — all  the  more  because  he  knew  there  would  soon  be 
nothing  but  the  memory  of  them  left,  and  felt  how  dreary  his 
home  would  be  without  them  in  the  days  to  come. 

For  the  London  physician  who,  much  against  her  wish,  was 
summoned  to  see  her,  only  confirmed  Dr  Mapleston's  opinion ; 
and  although  he  thought  change  of  air  might  perhaps  for  a  short 
time  be  beneficial,  seemed  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  her  being 
able  to  undertake  the  journey  to  Atherstone ;  nor  did  he  give 
hopes  of  any  permanent  good  being  effected,  even  if  she  should 

T 


290  ATHERSTONE  PKIORY. 

get  so  far.  Some  nearer  place  would  be  better,  he  said,  if  she 
really  wished  to  leave  home :  but  the  wish  to  go  now  was  not 
hers — it  was  Percy's ;  and  he  only  clung  to  the  idea  because, 
with  the  thought  of  change,  something  like  hope  appeared  to 
linger.  But  Lisa  begged  so  hard  to  stay  where  she  was  that 
the  plan  was  given  up. 

'  I  am  so  much  happier  here,'  she  said.  '  And  I  know  that 
going  can't  do  me  any  real  good.  I  might  be  better  for  a  day 
or  two,  perhaps,  but  it  wouldn't  last.  I  should  like  to  have 
gone  to  Atherstone  if  I  could ;  for  I  have  been  longing — oh  ! 
so  much,  to  see  it  again  and  everybody  there.  But  perhaps  it 's 
better  I  shouldn't ;  for  I  think  if  I  were  to  see  all  the  old  places 
where  I  was  a  child  a  little  time  ago,  and  used  to  play  and  be 
happy,  it  would  make  me  wish  to  live.  And  I  don't  want  to 
wish  that  again,'  with  a  long  sigh.  *  I  have  been  happier  lately, 
to  think  of  going.  Let  me  die  in  our  own  home,  Percy,  where 
you  have  made  me  so  happy.  I  should  like  to  be  here  till  the 
last.' 

*You  don't  want  me  just  at  present,  dear  Lisa,  do  you?' 
Mary  asked,  coming  into  the  room  one  evening  a  few  days  later. 
'  You  seem  so  much  better  to-night,  that  I  thought  I  would  go 
to  church  as  I  didn't  get  there  this  morning.  Not  if  you  don't 
wish  it,'  she  added,  seeing  Lisa's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  earnestly ; 
*  I  can  stay  if  you  want  me.' 

*  No,  oh  no.  Percy  will  be  with  me,  you  know  ;  and  Lane  is 
here  to  take  baby  when  I  am  tired.  Give  me  a  kiss,  though, 
Mary,  before  you  go.'  she  said,  still  looking  at  her  cousin  in  the 
same  earnest  way. 

Mary  smiled  a  little ;  but  she  stooped  down  and  did  as  she 
was  asked ;  and  then  with  some  last  injunctions  left  the  room. 

It  was  Sunday:  the  bells  far  and  near  had  been  ringing  for 
evening  service ;  and  even  when  they  ceased  the  air  was  not 
still,  for  the  break  of  the  waters  on  the  beach  and  the  fresh 
wind  sweeping  through  the  garden  trees  kept  up  a  pleasant  stir 
and  life  around.  All  day  long  that  cool  breeze  had  been  blowing, 
and  under  its  influence  Lisa  had  seemed  stronger  and  better  than 
for  some  weeks  past ;  so  much  so,  that  when  Dr  Mapleston  had 
paid  his  accustomed  visit  that  morning,  he  had  expressed  his 
surprise  at  the  improvement,  and  told  her  smilingly  as  he  went 
away  that  she  would  soon  be  ready  for  her  journey  to  Atherstone. 


AT  REST.  291 

Could  it  be  that  something  of  hope  still  lingered  in  Percy's 
breast  ?  Whatever  the  reason  was,  he  certainly  seemed  lighter- 
hearted  than  for  many  a  long  day  past.  It  was  with  almost  a 
look  of  pleasure  that  he  sat  and  watched  her  as  she  lay  playing 
with  her  child ;  smiling  and  talking  to  it,  and  appearing  quite 
delighted  when  she  could  win  back  a  smile  and  a  low  murmuring 
sound  in  return.  There  was  no  sadness  about  her  then :  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  how  very  short-lived  her  pleasure 
must  be ;  how  soon  she  must  be  parted  from  the  little  creature 
over  whom  she  was  bending  in  such  happiness.  But  when  the 
child,  tired  out  with  play,  dropped  asleep  upon  her  knee,  with  a 
smile  still  upon  its  face  and  its  fingers  fast  wound  in  one  of  the 
long  tresses  of  her  hair  which  had  fallen  down,  there  was  a 
silence,  until  Percy  was  startled  by  hearing  a  low  sob.  He  rose 
hastily. 

*  What  is  it,  dearest?'  he  said,  coming  to  her  side.  '  You  are 
tired,  are  you  not?     Let  me  ring  for  Lane  to  take  her  away.' 

Lisa  shook  her  head.  ^IsTo,  it's  not  that,'  and  she  tried  to 
check  her  tears ;  but  they  only  seemed  to  fall  the  faster  for  the 
effort  she  made  to  restrain  them. 

'What  is  it,  then?  Won't  you  tell  me,  dearest?'  he  said 
anxiously.  ^  You  are  not  feeling  worse,  are  you?'  and  he  knelt 
by  her  side,  his  voice  faltering  as  he  spoke.  Her  smile,  however, 
re-assured  him ;  though  it  was  through  her  tears  that  she  looked 
at  him. 

'  No.  I  am  a  great  deal  better  to-day ;  better  than  I  have 
been  for  ever  so  long.  I  was  only  thinking.'  And  once  more 
tears  choked  her  utterance.  '  You  must  let  me  cry  a  little,'  she 
said,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  again.  *  Don't  stop  me ;  it  does 
me  good,  for — I  was  thinking  of  baby.'  There  was  another  long 
pause.  *0  Percy,  she  will  never  know  me!'  she  exclaimed  at 
last.  '  She  will  never  know  how  much  I  loved  her.  It  makes 
me  so  sorry  to  think  of  it ;  and  to  think,  too,  that  I  shall  know 
nothing  of  her — that  I  shall  never  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  learn  to  walk  and  talk  and  run  about,  as  I  had  hoped.  It 
is  very  hard  to  give  her  up,  and  all  the  happiness  I  thought  I 
should  have  with  her.  I  fancied  lately  I  had  learned  to  do  it, 
and  that  when  the  time  came  I  should  be  able  to  go  without 
feeling  very  sorry  3  but  just  now ' 

She  stopped,  for  the  large  tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes  again; 
and  one  of  them  rolled  slowly  down  and  fell  on  the  face  of 


292  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

the  unconscious  child.  She  wiped  it  away,  and  her  gaze  was 
fastened  long  and  earnestly  upon  the  little  sleeper  ;  but  Percy 
neither  moved  nor  spoke.  For  many  minutes  her  head  was  bent 
in  silence,  but  the  painful  look  of  doubt  and  sorrow  which  had 
come  over  her  face  passed  away,  and  in  its  place  there  came  back 
the  calmer,  happier  look,  which  lately  had  seemed  to  belong 
to  it. 

'  Yes,  I  was  wrong ;  I  had  forgotten,^  and  she  raised  her  head 
and  checked  a  sigh  which  was  coming.  *  Mary  told  me  all  about 
it  one  day ;  and  I  know  she  was  right.  She  said  God  had  been 
very  good  to  send  baby  to  me  to  make  me  so  happy,  even  for  a 
little  time  ;  and  I  know  He  has,  and  I  must  not  feel  it  hard  that 
He  should  call  me  now  to  go  away  and  leave  her.  And  I  am 
sure  when  I  see  her  again  by-and-by,  and  when  I  see  you  too, 
Percy,  I  sha'n't  be  sorry  we  were  not  together  just  for  a  few 
years.  We  shall  none  of  us  be  sorry  then,  shall  we  ?  We  shall 
forget  this  time  altogether.'     Her  eye  grew  very  bright. 

He  kissed  her,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Ah  !  hope  that  for  a 
time  they  might  yet  not  be  parted,  had  not  wholly  died  within 
him  ;  and  it  brought  a  bitter  pang  to  hear  her  speak  as  if  that 
separation  might  be  near. 

*  I  am  glad  I  shall  leave  her  with  you,  Percy,'  she  went  on 
after  a  time.  *  You  will  want  some  one  to  comfort  you ;  and  she 
will  be  a  great  pet — you  will  be  very  fond  of  her.  I  wonder 
whether  she  will  grow  up  at  all  like  me,  and  ever  remind  you  of 
me.  Yon  will  talk  to  her  about  me  sometimes,  won't  you? 
Tell  her  how  I  loved  her,  and  how  grieved  I  was  when  I  had  to 
leave  her — grieved  at  least  at  first,'  she  added,  correcting  herself. 
'  But  not  now — no,  not  now,'  in  a  low  voice.  *  I  know  now  that 
it  is  all  right  as  it  is.'  And  once  more  she  bent  down  again  and 
kissed  her  child  many  times. 

*My  little  darling!'  she  murmured.  *You  will  think  of  me 
sometimes,  won't  you?  and  you  will  know  how  much  I  loved 
you.  And,  Percy,  you  won't  forget  me  either,  will  you  ?  But  I 
know  you  won't  \  you  will  often  think  of  me  :  and  they  must  not 
be  sorrowful  thoughts.  I  may  not  be  so  far  away  after  all — 
perhaps  I  may  be  very  near.  You  can  think  I  am;  and  wherever 
you  go  you  can  fancy  I  am  with  you.  And  when  you  sit  alone 
in  the  long  winter  evenings,  as  we  used  to  sit  last  year,  and  the 
room  is  very  quiet,  you  must  not  fancy  you  are  quite  alone. 
You  must  not  feel  sad  then,  Percy.    Never  feel  sad,  please,  when 


AT  REST.  293 

you  think  of  me.     You  must  only  remember  how  happy  you 
made  me  while  I  was  with  you.' 
'  Happy  !     My  poor  Lisa  ! ' 

*  Yes,  happy — very  happy !  I  have  often  wished,  Percy,  to 
thank  you  for  being  so  kind  to  me.  You  have  no  idea  how 
dijfferent  my  life  has  been  since  I  knew  you.  I  was  haj^py 
before — happy  in  a  way,  because  Mary  was  so  kind  to  me ;  but 
when  you  came  everything  changed.  It  made  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  me  knowing  you.  And  when  we  were  married, 
how  happy  you  made  me  when  everything  was  strange  and  new! 
and  how  very  happy  you  have  made  me  ever  since  !'  She  laid  her 
head  on  his  shoulder  as  he  still  knelt  by  her  side.  *  I  feel  as  if 
I  hadn't  loved  you  half  enough,  and  could  never  thank  you  as  I 
ought.  I  only  wish  I  could  have  lived  a  little  longer  to  do  a 
great  deal  more  for  you.  I  have  thought  of  a  great  many  things 
lately  that  I  might  have  done  to  make  your  home  happier.  But 
you  must  think,  please,  that  I  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  that  I 
wasn't  very  old,  and  should  have  done  better  by-and-by.  For  I 
did  try  to  please  you,  Percy — indeed  I  did.' 

*  I  know  it,  my  darling — I  always  knew  it.  And  you  did  it 
too.  No  one  could  have  made  a  home  happier  than  you  always 
made  mine,  my  little  summer-bird.' 

He  stopped,  overcome  suddenly  by  the  host  of  recollections 
brought  back  by  that  old  pet  word. 

*  Ah,  yes,  your  summer-bird  !'  and  Lisa's  smile  for  a  moment 
was  very  sad.  *  Ah,  Percy !  you  should  have  chosen  some  one 
else — some  one  who  would  have  stayed  with  you  in  dark  days  as 
well  as  bright.  The  summer-birds  go  when  autumn  comes ;  and 
I  am  going  too.  I  wish  I  could  have  stayed  a  little  longer ;  only 
a  very  little,  till  the  leaves  begin  to  change.  I  want  to  see  them 
falling  again,  as  I  saw  them  last  autumn — as  they  did  the  day  we 
were  married.  Do  you  remember  how  they  came  down  upon  us  as 
we  walked  from  church ;  and  how  w^arm  and  bright  the  sun  was, 
and  how  the  birds  sang  1  It  seems  a  very  little  time  ago :  I 
never  thought  then  I  shouldn't  see  the  leaves  fall  again ;  and 
every  morning  lately  I  have  looked  at  the  trees  opposite  to 
see  if  they  were  fading.  I  want  so  much  to  see  one  yellow  leaf 
before  I  die.  But  there  is  not  one ;  and  now  I  am  afraid  there 
never  will  be  for  me.' 

'Lisa,  my  darling,  don't  say  that.  You  are  better  now — ^you 
will  stay  with  me  a  long,  long  time  yet.'     And  again  he  drew 


294  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

her  closer  to  him — the  hard  stern  lines  of  his  mouth  giving  way, 
and  quivering  with  suppressed  anguish.  But  she  did  not  see  the 
alteration  in  his  face.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  waving 
boughs  of  the  acacias,  where  the  sun's  last  rays  were  playing ; 
and  she  looked  at  them  long  and  earnestly.  There  was  no  trace 
of  change  among  their  leaves. 

^  How  beautiful  they  are  with  that  red  light  upon  them  !*  she 
said,  in  a  low  thoughtful  tone.  'And  how  beautiful  the  sea 
looks  beyond,  with  that  line  of  gold  and  crimson  across  it !  Do 
you  know,  when  I  see  everything  so  lovely,  when  I  look  at  those 
beautiful  waters  and  the  sunset  above  them,  I  wonder  what  that 
other  world  must  be  like  where  everything  is  to  be  so  much  better 
— so  much  more  lovely.  This  seems  almost  perfect — as  if  one  could 
hardly  wish  for  more  beauty  anywhere.  And  yet  there  will  be, 
of  course ;  because  we  are  told  so.  I  wish  you  would  read  me 
those  last  two  chapters  in  the  Bible,  Percy,  where  it  speaks  of 
our  other  home.  I  should  like  to  hear  them  while  I  lie  here  and 
look  at  the  sunset.' 

Percy  did  as  he  was  asked.  He  took  up  Lisa's  little  Bible 
that  lay  beside  her,  and  though  his  voice  faltered  once  or  twice 
as  he  read  of  the  golden  city,  with  its  blessed  inhabitants,  from 
whom  death  and  sorrow  and  pain  have  passed  away,  yet  he  went 
on  to  the  end,  and  Lisa  made  no  remark  when  he  had  finished. 
She  only  raised  herself  a  little ;  and  then  he  asked  if  she  wanted 
anything. 

'  No,  nothing  more,  thank  you.  I  like  to  think  of  that ;'  and 
there  was  a  long  silence.  She  lay  with  her  eyes  closed,  and 
after  some  time  her  low  regular  breathing  seemed  to  tell  that  she 
was  asleep.  It  must  have  been  a  sound  sleep  too ;  for  when  her 
baby  stirred  once  or  twice,  she  did  not  notice  it ;  and  generally 
the  slightest  movement  on  its  part  was  sufficient  to  rouse  her 
from  her  slumbers. 

*  Poor  child,  how  tired  she  is  !'  thought  Percy;  but  he  remem- 
bered the  many  w^eary  days  and  restless  nights  she  had  had  for 
so  long,  and  felt  only  too  glad  she  should  have  the  sleep  she  so 
much  needed.  He  knelt  on,  and  watched  the  sun  go  down,  and 
the  last  faint  streaks  of  crimson  light  fade,  and  the  western  sky 
grow  dark.  And  then  the  stars  came  out  above,  and  glimmered 
brightly  on  the  far-spreading  waste  of  waters.  And  one  there 
was  brighter  and  clearer  than  all  the  rest,  which  shone  with  a 
calm  and  steady  ray ;  and  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  contrasted  its 


AT  REST.  295 

unwavering  light  with  the  restless  motion  of  the  troubled  waves 
below,  he  could  have  fancied  it  an  emblem  of  that  bright  and 
changeless  world  on  whose  portals  it  seemed  to  stand,  and  of 
whose  glories  he  had  just  been  reading. 

He  watched  it  for  very  long,  until  it  too  went  down  like  the 
sun  behind  the  high  cliffs  on  the  beach ;  and  it  was  only  when 
its  light  was  gone  that  he  recollected  where  he  was,  and  began  to 
feel  something  of  the  constraint  of  his  position.  But  his  arm 
was  round  Lisa,  and  her  head  was  still  resting  on  his  shoulder ; 
and  he  would  not  disturb  her,  though  he  wondered  she  slept  so 
long.  Once  only  she  had  moved  a  little ;  and  he  had  fancied 
then  he  heard  something  like  a  sigh,  as  if  she  had  been  waking ; 
but  she  had  not  spoken,  and  there  had  been  no  other  sound  since. 
She  was  very  quiet  now;  and  the  child  was  sleeping  too,  as 
peacefully  as  its  mother,  so  he  did  not  stir.  He  knelt  on  undis- 
turbed in  the  dark  and  silent  room,  till  Mary^s  step  was  heard  in 
the  hall,  and  her  voice  close  to  the  door.  Even  then  he  would 
not  move;  and  as  she  came  in  with  a  light  in  her  hand,  he 
motioned  to  her  to  tread  softly,  and  not  to  speak.  She  set  down 
the  candle  she  was  carrying,  and  with  a  cautious  step  came  across 
the  room ;  stopping  for  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  while 
unfastening  her  bonnet  strings,  and  then  pausing  to  look  a  little 
longer  at  the  two  sleepers  there,  the  child  who  was  slumbering  so 
quietly,  and  Lisa,  who  lay  with  her  arm  fast  clasped  round  it, 
and  her  face  half  hidden  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  Something 
in  that  face,  however,  shaded  as  it  was,  arrested  Mary's  attention 
and  the  perfect  stillness  of  that  sleeping  form  filled  her  all  at  once, 
she  knew  not  why,  with  a  strange  fear.  She  would  have  spoken^ 
but  could  not ;  and  for  some  moments  she  stood,  afraid  to  move, 
lest  that  great  dread  which  was  beginning  to  find  shape  should  re- 
solve itself  into  certainty.  Unable,  however,  at  last  to  bear  the  op 
pressive  silence,  she  crept  round  to  her  cousin's  side,  and  bending 
over  her,  laid  her  hand  upon  hers  as  it  rested  on  her  child.  And 
then  she  knew  all.  The  cold  touch,  the  drooping  head,  and  that 
lifeless  stillness  told  everything.  Lisa  was  gone — gone  to  her 
rest  in  sleep — gone  without  suffering  of  any  kind.  Death,  which 
she  once  had  feared  so  much,  had  come  to  her  gently  and  kindly ; 
she  had  mercifully  been  spared  the  parting  to  which  she  had  so 
long  looked  forward  with  dread.  With  her  child  upon  her  arm, 
and  by  the  side  of  him  whom  she  loved  best,  she  had  passed 
away ;  and  there  was  no  trace  now  of  pain  or  sorrow  on  her  fair 


296  ATHERSTONE  PIIIORY. 

3'oung  face — only  a  strange,  unearthly  beauty — a  light  as  it 
seemed  from  the  other  world. 

^  Percy/  it  was  long  before  Mary  found  voice  to  speak.  ^  Dear 
Percy,  you  must  lay  her  down— you  can^t  disturb  her  now.'  And 
then,  as  she  herself  stooped  to  take  up  the  sleeping  child  from  its 
dead  mother's  arms,  all  the  floodgates  of  her  sorrow  gave  way, 
and  she  burst  into  tears. 

With  a  startled  look  Percy  raised  his  head  and  gazed  at  her, 
as  if  utterly  unable  to  comprehend  her  meaning.  But  as  he  ap- 
peared to  realise  the  sense  of  her  words,  his  face  changed,  and 
like  her,  he  bent  down  to  look  and  listen.  For  many  minutes 
there  was  silence  in  the  room — silence  so  still  and  deep  that 
Mary  could  hear  the  beating  of  her  own  heart ;  and  then  there 
came  a  cry — a  low  terrible  cry  of  bitter  agony  which  seemed 
wrung  from  a  broken  heart. 

*  Lisa,  my  Lisa,  iriy  little  Lisa,  come  back  to  me  ! ' 

But  he  spoke  in  vain.  The  voice  for  which  he  listened  was 
hushed — the  shadow  of  death  was  on  his  home. 


CHAPTER  XLIIL 

A  LONG  PARTING. 


Morning  came — another  glorious  summer  morning,  all  light  and 
beauty.  The  sunshine  sparkled  on  the  sea,  and  the  little  waves 
came  dancing  in  and  broke  merrily  upon  the  sandy  shore. 
Among  the  trees  about  the  cottage  the  breezes  were  playing  joy- 
ously ;  and  many  thousands  awoke  that  day  to  new  hopes  and 
gladness.  There  was  no  change  in  the  world  because  one  young 
life  was  over.  In  all  that  busy  town  there  were  few  to  give  a 
thought  to  the  darkened  room  where  a  still  and  shrouded  form 
was  lying — few  to  think  of  the  sorrow  and  desolation  that  had 


A  LONG  PARTING.  297 

come  on  tlie  home  from  which  one  so  cherished  was  gone.  Lisa 
herself  had  once  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  being  so  little  missed 
in  the  world  of  life  about  her — of  resting  so  unconscious  of  the  glory 
and  beauty  of  all  outer  things.  But  what  were  they  to  her  now  1 
The  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  summer  and  the  snows  and 
storms  of  winter  would  be  alike  unheeded ;  and  even  the  wail- 
ing of  her  child  had  no  power  to  disturb  her  sleep.  Calmly  she 
lay  there  now ;  and  as  Mary  stood  by  her  side  and  contrasted 
that  still  deep  repose  with  the  restlessness  of  the  days  just  past, 
and  saw  the  happy  look  upon  the  face  which  lately  had  so  often 
been  clouded  by  grief  and  pain,  she  felt  that  the  change  for  her 
was  indeed  a  blessed  one. 

But  it  ^vas  hardly  in  those  first  days  that  Mary  felt  her  loss 
the  most.  It  was  for  others  she  had  lived  all  her  life ;  and  it 
was  of  others  she  had  now  to  think.  For  Percy  was  stunned  by 
the  blow  which  had  come  upon  him ;  and  in  the  endeavour  to 
spare  him  as  much  as  possible  she  had  but  little  time  to  think  of 
her  own  grief.  And  w^ell  it  was  for  him  that  he  had  her  to  turn 
to — that  he  was  not  alone  in  his  sorrow.  It  was  something  to 
him  to  know  there  was  one  to  share  it  with  him — something 
to  know  that  the  treasure  which  had  been  idolised  by  him  had 
been  prized  by  another  too ;  that  the  same  thoughts  of  her  were 
in  the  minds  of  both,  though  her  name  was  never  mentioned. 
For  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  talk  of  her.  Not  even  to  his 
sister  could  he  speak  of  *  his  little  Lisa,'  *  his  summer-bird,*  as  he 
had  so  fondly  called  her.  From  the  time  when  he  had  laid  her 
down,  when  there  had  been  no  answer  to  his  passionate  entreaty 
to  her  to  listen  to  him — from  that  time  her  name  became  to  him 
a  thing  of  the  past,  sealed  and  sacred.  He  never  mentioned  it 
himself,  and  could  not  hear  it  from  others  ;  and  once  when  Mary, 
hoping  to  rouse  him  from  the  silent  grief  which  seemed  to  be 
crushing  him,  spoke  of  her  cousin — spoke  of  her  by  name,  as 
Lisa — the  look  upon  his  face,  and  the  sudden  contraction  of  his 
brow,  told  her  it  was  more  than  he  could  bear ;  even  without  his 
hurried  exclamation,  '  Not  now,  Mary — not  yet.  I  must  hear  it 
from  others  by-and-by,  but  not  from  you  !  Let  me  forget  now  if 
I  can.' 

Forget  1  Yes,  if  silence  had  been  f  orgetf  ulness,  he  might  have 
forgotten.  For  silently,  and  with  no  outward  signs  of  grief, 
he  stood  each  day  by  Lisa's  cofiin.  In  silence  he  looked  at  the 
much-loved  and  lifeless  form  that  lay  there  ready  for  its  last 


298  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

unbroken  rest — the  young  face  which  once  had  been  so  bright 
and  joyous,  now  so  still  and  quiet — the  golden  hair,  his  pride 
and  admiration,  now  braided  away,  and  the  long  eyelashes  closed 
for  ever  over  those  dark  loving  eyes.  In  silence  he  took  his 
last  look  at  her  on  the  day  that  the  coffin-lid  was  fastened  down 
to  shut  her  from  his  sight ;  and  in  silence  he  followed  her  to  the 
churchyard  beside  the  sea  where  she  was  to  lie — a  crowded 
burial-ground  where  the  rich  and  poor  of  many  generations  slept 
together,  and  where  one  more  grave  in  a  quiet  corner  would 
pass  unnoticed.  Who  would  know  that  under  that  low  mound 
was  buried  away  so  much  of  grace  and  loveliness,  so  much  of  the 
joy  and  happiness  of  a  life  that  had  been  bound  up  in  her  who 
was  sleeping  there  1  and  who  that  ever  chanced  in  days  to  come 
to  pause  by  that  lowly  grave,  would  turn  from  it  to  think  of  the 
husband  sitting  by  his  lonely  hearth,  dreaming  of  the  bright- 
haired,  beautiful  girl  who  once  had  sat  with  him  there,  and 
rousing  himself  with  a  start  to  find  that  he  was  alone  with  his 
memories  of  the  past  1 

He  went  back  now  to  his  home,  through  a  summer  shower  that 
was  falling — stealing  softly  and  silently  down,  as  it  might  have 
been  in  calm  and  chastened  weeping  for  the  early  dead.  And 
well  would  it  have  been  for  him  if  he  too  could  have  wept ;  and 
then  have  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  distant  hills  beyond  the  bay,  on 
which,  even  through  the  rain,  the  sun*s  bright  rays  were  once 
more  kindling,  speaking  of  hope  and  light  beyond  the  clouds. 
But  neither  tears  nor  hopes  were  his — only  a  dreary  blank,  a 
sense  of  utter  and  forlorn  nothingness. 

And  so  he  went  back  to  his  home — back  to  Lisa^s  room; 
and  locking  the  door  behind  him,  sat  down  upon  the  sofa  and 
looked  around  him — looked  at  the  far-spreading  sea,  now  danc- 
ing again  in  sunshine — at  the  yellow  sands,  and  the  garden  trees 
where  the  raindrops  were  glistening;  and  then  his  eye  came  back 
to  that  desolate  room,  so  strange,  and  yet  so  familiar.  For  all 
about  him  were  her  things.  Her  books,  her  work,  her  writing- 
case,  the  last  dress  she  had  worn,  the  little  ornaments — his  orna- 
ments— which  she  had  had  on  when  she  died ;  amongst  others 
the  pearl  ring,  his  betrothal  gift  to  her  scarcely  a  year  before. 
He  took  it  up  now.  What  a  child  she  had  been  when  he  had 
put  it  on  her  finger;  and  back  came  at  once,  in  a  flood,  all  the 
recollections  of  that  day — that  sunny  day  at  Copelands.  The 
white  gate  by  which  they  had  stood,  the  wych-elm  by  the  road- 


A  LONG  PAKTING.  299 

side,  the  green  lane  down  which  he  had  walked,  and  looked  hack 
to  see  her  watching  him  as  he  went — he  saw  them  all.  And  what 
memories  of  all  that  time  were  stirred  up  then !  Of  his  coming 
up  that  lane  every  morning  to  find  her  waiting  for  him,  of  her 
face  of  delight  when  she  caught  sight  of  him;  of  their  long  walks 
and  rides,  their  talks  together ;  of  her  frank,  child-like  happiness, 
so  curiously  mixed  with  her  half-shy,  but  graceful,  loving  ways. 
How  proud  then  had  been  his  love  and  admiration  for  her !  How 
proud  had  he  been  too  in  later  days,  when  for  a  little  time  he  had 
called  that  graceful  fairy-child  his  wife!  That  time  was  over 
now,  those  few  months  of  happiness  were  past,  and  she  was  gone. 
Gone !  No,  he  could  not  realise  it — when  all  around  him  spoke 
of  her,  he  could  not  believe  she  was  really  gone — and  for  ever. 
It  was  only  for  a  little  while — for  a  few  hours.  She  had  gone 
out  somewhere,  but  she  would  come  back — and  he  thought  he 
heard  her  gay  voice  singing  in  the  garden,  as  she  had  often  sung 
among  her  flowers,  and  then  her  light  footstep  on  the  stairs. 
She  was  coming  that  way — coming  to  look  for  him !  Ah,  why 
did  she  pause  at  the  door  1  why  did  she  come  no  farther  1  And 
why  at  that  moment  was  there  a  child's  cry — her  child's — to 
break  the  stillness  of  the  house,  and  bring  him  back  from  the 
world  of  fancy  to  the  sad  realities  of  life  1 

He  rose  then,  and  going  to  a  table  near,  opened  her  writing- 
case  and  took  from  it  a  paper  which  she  had  told  him  he  would 
find  there.  It  was  the  same  that  Isabel  had  one  day  seen  lying 
beside  her.  He  took  it  up  and  read  it  through — all  her  wishes 
with  regard  to  the  many  little  things  she  called  her  own.  He 
read  them  through  from  beginning  to  end,  and  never  flinched. 
There  was  no  change  in  his  face,  except  once;  and  that  was  when 
he  came  to  Isabel's  name  amongst  those  of  others,  to  whom  some 
of  her  most  prized  treasures  had  been  left.  There  was  a  look 
then — -a  look  of  the  most  bitter,  most  intense  anguish ;  and  a 
sudden  movement  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  would  have  dashed  out 
that  name.  But  the  look  went  again,  and  his  hand  fell,  and  he 
read  on  to  the  end  as  unmoved  as  before. 

And  then  he  laid  the  paper  down,  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
with  his  arms  folded  as  if  in  thought.  But  not  for  very  long, 
he  roused  himself  again,  and  took  out  all  her  letters — letters  that 
she  had  received  mostly  from  Atherstone,  and  the  greater  num- 
ber from  Mary ;  but  there  were  a  few  of  his  own,  too ;  written 
when  he  had  been  at  Hoole.     She  had  asked  that  they  might  all 


300  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

be  burnt ;  and  he  threw  them  all  together  on  the  hearth,  and 
setthig  light  to  tbem,  watched  until  they  were  consumed.  And 
then  he  took  her  empty  writing-case,  and  put  it  away  in  a  drawer 
with  her  work-box  and  favourite  books  ;  and  collecting  every 
little  thing  that  had  been  left  about,  he  put  them  all  away,  until 
the  room  looked  very  bare  and  desolate.  He  stood  in  the  middle 
of  it  then,  gazing  round  with  a  face  well-nigh  heart-broken  in 
its  expression ;  and  then  taking  up  her  dressing-case  and  the 
paper  he  had  been  reading,  he  went  away,  locking  the  door  and 
carrying  off  the  key.  He  took  the  dressing-case  to  Mary,  who 
was  sitting  sad  and  lonely  in  the  drawing-room  with  the  baby, 
and  laying  down  the  paper  beside  her,  said  in  a  steady  though 
not  very  natural  voice  : 

*  Will  you  see  that  all  that  is  done — the  first  part  I  mean  1 
The  rest  I  shall  see  to  myself.' 

Mary  took  the  paper.  She  could  not  look  so  unmoved  as  he 
had  done  on  poor  Lisa's  last  expressed  wishes,  and  her  tears  fell 
very  fast  while  reading  them  ;  but  he  did  not  notice  her.  He 
took  up  his  child  from  her  knee,  and  walking  away  to  one  of  the 
windows,  stood  there  with  it  asleep  in  his  arms  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon,  neither  moving  nor  speaking.  And  all  the  evening 
afterwards  he  sat  silent  and  motionless ;  not  thinking,  only  feeling 
— feeling  that  dreary  blank,  that  utter  hopelessness  of  despair. 

And  so  time  went  by — time  which  the  year  before  at  that 
same  season  had  gone  so  fast.  Days  began  and  ended,  and 
passed  into  weeks ;  but  each  as  it  went  seemed  to  bring  little 
change  to  Percy.  He  set  out  every  morning  to  his  duties,  and 
came  back  every  afternoon  at  his  usual  time ;  but  his  employ- 
ments had  become  nothing  but  an  irksome  round,  which,  though 
they  gave  him  occupation,  never  brought  forgetfulness.  His  first 
look  always  on  entering  the  room  after  any  absence,  was  towards 
the  place  where  Lisa,  whenever  she  was  down-stairs,  had  been 
either  sitting  or  lying ;  and  the  sight  of  his  face,  and  the  heavy 
sigh  with  which  when  he  missed  her  there  he  would  turn  away, 
gave  Mary  many  a  heart-ache.  His  evenings  were  spent  in 
silence,  mostly  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  which  however  he  very 
seldom  appeared  to  read  ;  while  Mary  sat  near  him  with  her  own 
book  or  work;  and  although  she  made  many  attempts  to 
rouse  him  into  cheerfulness,  his  weary  *  Leave  me  alone,  Mary ; 
let  me  be  quiet  with  you,'  was  far  from  encouraging  3  and  she 
found  it  better  in  general  to  desist. 


A  LONG  PARTING.  301 

*  Dear  Percy,  how  I  wish  I  could  help  you/  she  said,  coming 
to  his  side  one  evening,  when  he  had  been  standing  for  long  in 
the  twilight  without  speaking.  *  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do 
for  you  1 ' 

'  No,  nothing,  thank  you.  You  can't  bring  her  back,  and  that 
is  all  I  want.' 

And  Mary  turned  away  in  silence ;  that  hopeless  tone  told  her 
how  useless  it  was  for  the  present  to  try  and  reach  his  sorrow. 
To  time  alone  could  she  look  to  soften  his  grief — to  time  and  to 
one  other  comforter  still  left  him — his  little  child.  For  in  her 
he  seemed  to  find  his  only  pleasure ;  and  when  she  was  with 
him,  when  walking  about  with  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  often  did 
by  the  hour  togetlier,  his  face  would  lose  much  of  its  sadness ; 
and  as  she  grew  day  by  day  in  beauty  and  intelligence,  Mary 
noticed  with  intense  pleasure  how  much  she  drew  him  from  his 
melancholy  musings,  re-awakened  his  interest  in  passing  things, 
and  gave  him  new  subject  for  thought  and  hope.  She  was  still 
a  delicate,  tiny  creature,  but  very  quick  and  lively ;  with  her 
mother's  large  dark  eyes,  and  much  of  her  mother's  look  and 
loveliness  about  her  when  she  smiled.  To  w^atch  for  that  smile — 
to  try  to  win  it  from  her — was  Percy's  chief  delight ;  and  it  was 
one  which  became  no  rare  thing.  For  she  grew  to  know  him, 
and  soon  learned  to  show  a  decided  preference  for  him.  His 
dress  at  first  had  much  to  do  with  this.  His  scarlet  waistcoat 
and  the  gold  band  of  his  cap  caught  and  pleased  her  eye,  from 
their  contrast  to  the  sombre  hue  in  which  every  one  else  about 
her  appeared ;  and  she  never  saw  them  without  evident  tokens 
of  delight,  and  signifying  in  restless  baby  ways  her  wish  to  go  to 
him.  And  nothing  gave  him  more  pleasure  than  did  the  first 
signs  of  that  preference.  From  that  hour  something  of  his  loneli- 
ness and  sadness  seemed  to  vanish ;  and  when  he  found  that  she 
turned  to  him — that  she  preferred  his  arm  to  that  of  every  one 
else — and  cried  when  he  was  obliged  to  leave  her,  he  felt,  though 
he  hardly  acknowledged  it  to  himself,  that  the  interests  and 
pleasures  of  life  were  not  quite  gone ;  and  that  his  child,  if  she 
were  spared  to  him,  might  yet  make  up  for  much  that  he  had  lost. 

But  when  first  beginning  to  understand  all  that  Lisa's  child 
might  be  to  him,  he  was  suddenly  called  on  to  part  from  her. 
For  he  was  ordered  to  the  Cape.  He  could  not  take  his  child 
with  him,  as  once  he  had  determined  on  doing ;  for  both  his 
father  and  Dr  Mapleston  agreed  in  pronouncing  a  more  bracing 


302  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

climate  necessary  for  her.  There  was  nothing  for  it  therefore 
but  to  leave  her  in  his  sister's  charge,  and  send  her,  as  her  mother 
had  been  sent,  to  Atherstone  for  a  home. 

It  was  not  without  a  most  bitter  pang  that  this  resolve  was 
taken,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  part  with  the  child,  whose 
baby  smiles  and  likeness  to  her  young  mother  had  so  won  his 
heart.  He  hardly  let  her  leave  his  arms  that  evening ;  and  when 
he  went  to  look  at  her,  as  he  always  did,  after  she  had  been  car- 
ried to  his  sister's  room  for  the  night,  he  stood  there  watching 
her  for  so  long  that  Mary  was  afraid  something  was  wrong,  and 
asked  what  was  the  matter  with  her. 

^  Nothing,'  was  the  answer :  but  he  did  not  move,  and  after 
a  long  silence,  he  added,  *  You  must  take  good  care  of  her, 
Mary ;  and  if  I  don't  come  back,  mind  you  make  her  happy, 
poor  child  ! ' 

Mary  stooped  down  to  kiss  the  sleeping  baby,  and  her  voice 
faltered  a  little  as  she  said,  *  I  think  you  can  trust  me,  Percy. 
If  I  didn't  love  her  already  for  her  own  sake,  I  should  for  her 
mother's.     I  promised  her  to  take  care  of  her.' 

A  few  days  of  bustle  and  preparation  followed — days  during 
which  Mary  was  too  thankful  she  had  no  time  to  think;,  and  that 
at  night  she  was  too  tired  to  lie  awake  and  muse  over  the  present 
and  the  past.  She  could  not  afford  to  give  way  then ;  thought 
might  come  afterwards,  but  in  the  meanwhile  she  worked  away 
incessantly.  For  the  cottage  was  to  be  given  up,  and  she  and 
Lane  were  to  return  to  Atherstone  when  her  brother  left.  There 
was  much,  therefore,  to  be  done ;  and  in  packing  and  superintend- 
ing the  removal  of  things  that  were  to  be  sent  before  them  to 
the  Priory,  she  found  unceasing  occupation ;  which,  in  spite  of 
the  weariness  it  brought  both  to  mind  and  body,  she  could  not 
regret. 

On  the  last  evening  of  all^  when  everything  was  done,  she 
found  herself  at  liberty  to  go  once  more  to  that  quiet  grave  in 
the  churchyard  by  the  sea.  The  evening  was  closing  in,  and  she 
was  very  tired ;  but  the  distance  was  not  great,  and  putting  on 
her  cloak  and  bonnet,  she  made  her  way  by  the  sands  to  her 
cousin's  resting-place.  It  was  raw  and  cold ;  a  grey  mist  was 
creeping  over  the  sea,  whose  white  waves  curled  and  broke  at 
her  feet  with  a  sullen  murmur,  and  the  wind  swept  by  her 
with  a  harsh  dreary  sound  that  saddened  her  weary  spirit 
as   she   struggled   on   against  its   buffeting.     The   churchyard 


A  LONG  PARTING,  303 

was  quieter,  but  it  looked  dark  and  gloomy.  And  she  started 
when,  in  the  quiet  corner  where  Lisa  was  laid,  something  moved 
near  her,  and  she  saw  a  dark  form  standing  by  that  low  grave. 
But  it  was  only  for  a  moment  j  for  in  the  dim  light  she  recog- 
nised her  brother,  and  she  drew  close  to  him  and  stood  in  silence 
by  his  side.  No  one  else  was  there — in  that  solitary  place  they 
seemed  alone ;  and  yet  was  it  really  so  ?  In  spirit  might  she  not 
still  be  near  them,  watching  with  them  in  their  loneliness  and 
sadness  ?  Mary  believed  it ;  and  while  the  sky  looked  dark  above, 
and  only  the  wail  of  the  wind,  mingling  with  the  deep  hoarse 
sound  of  the  ground-swell  upon  the  beach,  met  her  ear,  in  fancy 
the  low  rush  of  that  wind  seemed  to  her  like  angel- wings,  and 
her  thoughts  went  travelling  on  beyond  the  clouds  and  storms 
that  hung  around,  to  that  brighter  world — the  home  of  that 
might-be  angel- watcher.  Bhe  could  not  weep  then — tears  for  one 
so  blessed  would  have  seemed  wrong ;  and  that  other  world  at 
that  moment  was  too  near  for  her  to  feel,  as  she  often  did,  so 
very  desolate.  She  did  not  think  then  of  Lisa  as  she  lay  shrouded 
in  darkness  and  silence  under  that  grassy  mound;  but  she  thought 
of  her  in  all  her  beauty,  a  bright  and  glorious  being,  in  whose 
eyes  lay  no  shadow  of  grief,  and  round  whose  young  brow  a  halo 
of  perfect  happiness  had  gathered. 

But  she  grew  cold  at  last ;  the  mist  had  changed  to  a  drizzling 
rain,  and  the  damp,  penetrating  her  dress  and  cloak,  roused  her 
to  a  recollection  of  time  and  place.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her 
brother's  arm. 

*  It  is  getting  late,  Percy.     Shall  we  go  ]  * 

He  looked  up  then.  *  Go !  yes,  you  had  better,  it 's  cold  here 
for  you.' 

*  And  for  you  too.     You  will  come  with  me,  won't  you  ? ' 

He  shivered,  but  made  no  answer,  and  for  some  moments  still 
stood  where  he  was.  Then  he  stooped  down  over  the  grave,  and 
gathered  something  from  it ;  only  a  little  of  the  grass  that  grew 
there,  as  she  saw  afterwards.  There  were  no  flowers ;  she  had 
planted  some  round  it  in  the  summer,  but  they  had  drooped  as 
autumn  came  on,  and  now  they  were  faded  and  gone.  He  took 
that  little  bit  of  grass  instead ;  and  then  he  turned  away,  and 
they  walked  back  in  silence,  through  the  misty  rain,  to  their 
desolate  home. 

A  long  sad  evening  that  last  one  was,  in  the  half-furnished 
room  which  once  had  looked  so  gay  and  pretty.     The  pictures 


304  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

were  gone  from  tlie  ^Yalls,  tlie  books  from  their  cases,  the  orna« 
ments  from  the  mantlepiece  and  tables ;  they  had  all  been  sent 
to  Atherstone.  Lisa*s  piano  had  been  sold;  her  flowers  were 
gone,  and  so  were  her  birds,  with  the  exception  of  a  solitary- 
canary  which  Mary  meant  to  take  with  her;  that  and  Prince 
having  been  the  two  pets  of  which  her  cousin  had  thought  most. 
The  dog  lay  now  on  the  hearth-rug  before  the  fire,  his  bright 
eyes  peering  through  his  shaggy  hair ;  but  he  seemed  restless, 
and  at  times  whined  uneasily,  as  if  he  would  have  asked  what 
change  had  come  there,  and  where  the  young  mistress  w^as,  whose 
step  and  voice  were  missing.  And  Mary  stitched  away  at  her 
work,  and  Percy  sat  in  silence  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire. 
And  without,  the  storm  was  howling,  and  the  sea  broke  in  long 
sullen  roars  upon  the  beach,  while  shrill  blasts  of  wind  whistled 
past  the  house,  and  went  shrieking  and  moaning  off  among  the 
distant  hills. 

A  wet  and  stormy  day  succeeded  that  stormy  night.  The  rain 
was  dripping  heavily  from  the  half-leafless  acacia  trees  and  trailing 
creepers,  when  Mary  took  her  last  look  out  upon  the  garden,  with 
its  damp  sodden  grass,  and  fading,  dying  flow^ers.  There  was  but 
little  vestige  left  of  its  former  beauty — the  hands  that  once  had 
tended  it  were  still  and  at  rest  for  ever,  and  everything  they  had 
cared  for  seemed  passing  to  rest  also — to  the  long  sleep  of  winter. 
A  longer  sleep  must  be  Lisa's,  a  far  deeper  repose  than  that  of 
the  flowers  she  had  watched  and  cherished ;  but  her  spring  would 
come  too,  and  like  them  she  would  rise  again  to  life  and  beauty. 
And  happy  for  her,  Mary  thought,  that  in  the  meantime  she 
was  safe  and  at  rest — at  rest  from  sorrow,  and  safe  from  the 
trials  and  partings  which  must  come  to  those  who  were  still  be- 
low. More  than  ever  was  this  thought  in  her  mind,  as  she  pic- 
tured that  long  parting  which  lay  before  herself,  and  watched 
her  brother's  face  when  looking  his  last  round  the  home  in  which 
the  greater  part  of  his  short  wedded  life  had  been  spent.  She 
wished  he  would  have  given  way  then,  that  he  had  been  alone, 
with  nothing  to  oblige  him  to  retain  that  composure  which  a  re- 
served and  haughty  nature  only  enabled  him  to  keep  up.  Any- 
thing, she  felt,  would  have  been  better  than  that  forced  unnatural 
manner,  that  stony  grief.  Last  orders  were  given,  and  last  pre- 
parations made  in  a  dry  business-like  way,  which  told  nothing  of 
his  innermost  feelings  ;  and  when  the  carriage  came  that  was  to 
take  them  to  the  station,  no  one  but  Mary  noticed  the  look  with 


A  LONG  PARTING.  305 

wliicli  he  turned  for  the  Last  time  to  that  low-roofed  cottage 
home  where  he  had  known  both  his  greatest  earthly  happines-^ 
and  bis  greatest  trial. 

A  cold  wet  journey  took  them  to  Southampton,  where  they 
w^ere  joined  by  Dr  Tennent,  who  had  found  time  to  meet  them 
there,  for  the  double  purpose  of  seeing  his  son  again,  and  taking 
his  daughter  and  grandchild  down  to  Atherstone.  A  short  time 
spent  together  then,  and  a  few  hours  more  in  the  morning,  and 
Mary  had  seen  her  last  of  Percy.  So  hurried  was  he  when  the 
time  for  leaving  came,  that  a  hasty  farewell  was  all  he  was  able 
to  take  of  his  child  as  she  lay  in  her  nurse's  arms.  She  had  been 
fretting  all  the  morning,  but  just  then  she  was  lying  very  quiet, 
and  as  he  came  up  she  turned  to  him  with  one  of  her  sweet  baby 
smiles.  No  time  then  for  the  toss  and  the  game  for  which  she 
always  looked — no  time  even  to  take  her  for  a  moment ;  and  that 
smile  of  hers  recalling  the  loved  and  lost  nearly  upset  in  that  part- 
ing moment  the  strong  man's  resolution.  His  lip  quivered  as  he 
bent  down  for  a  long  last  kiss. 

*  God  bless  you,  my  little  darling,  and  keep  you,  if  I  never 
see  you  again,'  he  murmured.  And  then  he  turned  away,  and, 
without  even  another  look  at  the  child  he  w^as  leaving  for  so 
long,  hurried  from  the  room. 

His  father  and  Mary  went  with  him  to  the  Castle  Car]),  which 
lay  at  some  little  distance  down  the  river  ;  but  their  parting 
might  almost  as  well  have  taken  place  on  shore,  for  little  was 
said  by  any  of  them,  and  the  few  minutes  during  which  they 
stood  together  on  the  wet  and  slippery  deck,  in  the  pouring 
rain,  amidst  all  the  confusion  of  last  arrivals,  and  final  leave- 
takings  of  friends,  only  made  Mary  feel  more  bitterly  the  pain 
of  that  parting.  She  had  time,  however,  for  a  hurried  visit  to 
his  berth  to  see  what  were  his  chances  of  comfort  during  the 
voyage;  and  time  also  to  hang  up  there  a  basket  of  flowers 
which  she  had  filled  with  wet  earth  and  moss,  in  hopes  that  by 
this  means  their  gay  blossoms  might  almost  last  out  to  the  Cape. 
And  then  the  bell  was  ringing,  the  anchor  was  heaving,  and  the 
last  boat  was  leaving  for  the  shore.  A  few  minutes  more,  and 
that  long  farewell  had  been  taken;  and  she  and  her  father  in 
rain  and  sleet  were  making  their  way  back  over  the  stormy 
water,  while  the  Castle  Cary  was  slowly  dropping  down  the 
river.  As  long  as  it  was  still  in  sight — as  long  as  she  could 
still  distinguish  the  forms  upon  its  crow^ded  deck,  Mary  stood 

U 


306  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

up  watcliing  her  brother  leaning  over  the  vessel's  side ;  but  it 
passed  away  at  last  in  the  shrouding  mist — her  own  tears  and 
the  driving  sleet  hid  it  from  her  sight ;  and  then  she  sat  down 
by  her  father,  and  gave  way  unchecked  to  the  grief  she  had  so 
long  kept  back. 

Drenched  with  rain  and  spray,  they  got  back  to  their  hotel ; 
but  not  to  stay.  Dr  Tennent  was  anxious  to  get  home  again  as 
soon  as  possible;  and  they  started  for  town  that  same  afternoon. 
Rain,  rain  still  as  they  Avent — all  the  country  was  veiled  in  mist, 
and  the  autumn  day  closed  in  again  in  storm.  The  Castle  Gary 
went  down  the  Channel  that  night  in  a  furious  gale ;  and  Mary 
in  their  London  lodging  lay  awake  and  listened  to  the  howling 
of  the  wind  and  the  heavy  fall  of  the  rain  in  the  streets,  and 
envied  the  unconscious  child  who  slept  upon  her  arm,  knowing 
nothing  of  the  mother  she  had  lost  or  of  the  father  who  had  left 
her  that  day. 

They  travelled  down  to  Atherstone  on  the  following  morning  ; 
and  on  that  bleak  autumnal  day,  Mary  once  more  re-entered  the 
house  which  a  few  months  before  she  had  left  on  an  early 
summer  s  morning,  in  obedience  to  that  hasty  summons  of  her 
brother's.  Her  welcome  back  was  almost  a  silent  one,  except 
from  the  children,  who  danced  about  her,  and  were  never  tired 
of  admiring  poor  Lisa's  baby,  pronouncing  it  the  most  beautiful 
little  thing  they  had  ever  seen.  But  neither  Isabel  nor  Elinor 
could  look  at  the  motherless  child  without  the  most  painful 
feelings  ;  and  Mrs  Tennent  was  graver  even  than  was  her  wont 
as  she  watched  Mary  bending  over  her  young  charge.  Was  she 
thinking  of  another  child  whose  worse  than  motherless  life  she 
had  so  often  embittered  by  her  harshness ;  and  when  she  met 
the  gaze  of  those  large  wondering  baby  eyes,  did  they  awaken 
recollections  of  the  -warm-hearted,  though  impetuous  girl,  whose 
young  days  in  that  same  home  she  had  made  so  far  from  happy  ? 
But  if  so,  she  was  not  the  one  to  confess  it ;  and  her  only 
remark  was  that  the  child  looked  very  delicate — she  did  not 
think  Mary  would  be  able  to  do  much  for  it. 

*  Yes,  I  am  afraid  she  has  a  hard  task  before  her,'  Dr  Tennent 
said,  looking  fondly,  though  with  some  sadness,  at  his  little 
grand-daughter.  *  We  must  do  what  we  can  for  her,  poor  child, 
but  I  am  afraid  Percy  will  not  see  her  again.  It  is  as  well  for 
him,  perhaps,  that  he  was  obliged  to  part  with  her  so  soon,  before 
he  came  to  care  for  her  too  much.' 


A  LONG  PARTING.  307 

Mary  was  silent;  but  she  stooped  to  kiss  her  charge,  and 
as  she  did  so  there  was  a  silent  vow  in  her  heart,  that  if 
love  and  care  of  hers  could  save  her  brother's  child,  that  care 
should  not  be  wanting- — and  the  vow  was  renewed  when  in  the 
twilight  of  that  same  day  she  sat  by  the  fireside  in  her  own 
room,  and  thought  of  the  cousin  from  whom  one  short  year 
before  she  had  parted  for  what  she  had  believed  would  be  to  her 
a  long  life  of  happiness.  For  that  day  was  the  sixteenth  of 
October,  and  as  she  sat  in  the  red  glowing  firelight,  while  the 
rain  was  dripping  without,  and  gusts  of  wind  were  sweeping 
round  the  house  and  through  the  fading  lime-trees,  in  thought 
she  went  back  to  that  same  day  tw^elve  months  before,  when  the 
world  had  looked  bright — when  the  birds  had  sung,  and  the  sun 
had  shone — when  the  bells  from  the  old  Priory  church  had  rung 
out  a  merry  wedding  peal,  and  she  had  said  *  good-bye  '  to  her 
brother  and  his  beautiful  young  bride ;  and  then  had  sat  where 
she  was  sitting  now,  to  dream  over  their  future.  How  little  had 
she  then  guessed  that  the  child  she  loved  so  well,  and  from 
whom  it  had  cost  her  such  a  pang  to  part,  would  never  more 
come  back  to  her  home — that  when  that  day  came  round  again, 
she  would  be  at  rest  in  her  quiet  grave,  and  he  with  whom  she 
had  gone  so  gladly,  would  be  on  his  way  alone,  and  half  broken- 
hearted, to  a  distant  land !  And  she  looked  at  the  little  child 
they  had  left,  and  wondered  whether  she  would  be  spared  to 
gladden  her  father's  heart,  if  he  ever  returned  from  that  far-off 
shore ;  and  whether  she  would  be  to  herself,  in  days  to  come, 
what  her  mother  had  been  before  her. 


308  ATHERSTONE  PRIORT. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

^LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COME,  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE.' 

More  than  five  years  passed  away,  and  once  again  it  was  a 
spring  day  at  Atherstone.  The  lime-trees  at  the  Priory  were 
fast  coming  into  leaf,  and  the  shade  upon  the  green  walk 
beneath  them  was  deepening  daily;  while  the  borders  that 
skirted  the  garden  lawn  were  filled  with  the  first  flowers  of  the 
season,  and  the  lawn  itself  looked  fresh  and  green  after  the  rain 
and  snows  of  winter.  The  sky  above  was  blue,  and  the  old 
house,  and  all  about  it,  wore  its  sunniest,  gayest  aspect.  The 
years  that  had  passed  had  brought  little  change  to  it.  The  long 
low  rooms,  with  their  dark  heavy  furniture,  were  the  same  as  in 
other  times — the  brightly-polished  hall  and  staircase  still  gave 
back  the  reflection  of  the  sun's  rays  w^hich  fell  through  the 
latticed  windows.  The  vine  and  the  rose-tree  still  hung  over 
and  darkened  the  casements,  and  not  one  nook  or  corner  of  the 
numberless  little  up-stair  rooms  w^as  altered  in  any  way.  Were 
those  who  lived  there  unchanged  too"? 

On  that  bright  afternoon  Isabel  was  sitting  alone  in  her  studio 
as  she  had  been  used  to  sit  in  the  days  that  were  gone.  The 
sunlight,  that  made  its  way  in  through  the  budding  vine-leaves, 
fell  upon  her  easel,  which  still  stood  in  its  old  position,  and  all 
around  her  were  her  drawings  and  paintings,  her  books  and 
sculpture,  her  music  and  her  engravings,  as  they  had  been 
gathered  in  former  times.  The  room  looked  so  much  the  same 
now  as  it  had  done  then — that  it  might  have  been  but  the  other 
day  since  Lisa  had  sought  admittance  there — since  she  had 
looked  with  a  wondering,  reverential  gaze  at  the  treasures  of  art 
collected  in  it,  and  turned  away  in  anger  and  disappointment 
because  its  beauties  and  curiosities  were  not  meant  for  her  to 
see. 

But  Isabel  was  not  the  same — time,  which  had  brought  so 
little  change  to  the  things  around  her,  had  changed  her.  Her 
face  had  lost  the  freshness  of  youth;  and  though  intellectual 
as  ever,  was  marked  with  lines  of  thought  and  care,  almost  of 


^LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COME,  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE.'  309 

sadness,  as  if  life  liad  not  brought  all  it  had  once  seemed  to 
promise.  Her  youth  was  going — she  was  looking  back  upon 
it,  and  what  had  it  given  her?  Not  happiness  —  for  the 
pursuits  in  which  she  had  spent  it,  refined  and  ennobling  as 
they  might  be,  had  been  worked  for  for  themselves  alone,  not 
as  an  end  to  better  things.  As  she  went  back  in  retrospect  over 
the  years  that  were  gone,  she  saw  they  had  been  wasted,  because 
they  had  been  spent  on  herself  alone.  It  was  for  herself  she  had 
lived ;  and  now  she  knew  it  had  all  been  in  vain.  She  felt  that 
the  recollection  of  kindly  words  and  deeds  to  others — of  a  youth 
given  to  making  those  around  her  happy,  would  have  been 
worth  more  than  the  talents — the  knowledge  of  which  she  had 
long  been  so  proud.  All  her  gifts,  all  her  talents,  she  would 
have  given  now  to  have  had  the  remembrance  of  a  life  of  care 
and  love  for  others,  of  a  charity  which  had  thought  no  evil,  had 
believed  the  best  of  all,  and  cherished  no  unkind  or  envious  feel- 
ings. There  would  then  have  been  no  self-reproach  to  mingle 
with  her  memories  of  by-gone  days — no  bitter  regret  for  words 
and  deeds  now  past  recal — no  vain  yearnings  for  affection  trifled 
with  and  lost.  Poor  Isabel !  it  was  a  dreary  waste  of  years 
on  which  she  was  looking  back ;  and  it  was  not  strange  that 
though  the  world  around  her  was  so  bright  on  that  spring  day 
her  brow  was  clouded,  and  her  face  wore  such  a  sad  weary 
expression.  She  did  not  notice  the  beauty  of  outward  things — 
she  did  not  see  the  dancing  of  the  sunlight,  the  young  leaves 
waking  into  life,  the  world  of  insect  being  rejoicing  in  the 
warmth  ;  she  sat  absorbed  in  her  own  painful  thoughts — so 
absorbed  in  them  that  she  was  not  aware  she  was  no  longer  alone 
— that  some  one  had  stolen  noiselessly  into  the  room.  A  little 
child  stood  there — a  tiny  child  with  delicate  features  and  the 
faint  pink  of  some  blush-rose  upon  her  cheek — with  large  dark 
eyes  and  long  curls  of  soft  brown-golden  hair.  There  was  no 
mistaking  those  eyes  and  hair — they  would  have  told  whose  child 
she  was,  even  had  the  resemblance  to  her  mother  been  less 
.  striking.     Isabel's  face  brightened  as  she  saw  her. 

*  Come  back  already,  little  May  ? '  she  said  with  a  smile ;  and 
as  the  child  ran  forward  eagerly  and  laid  her  head  in  her  lap, 
she  kissed  her  fondly.  '  Why,  you  didn't  stay  very  long  to-day. 
What  was  Lane  doing  to  bring  you  back  so  soon  1 ' 

*  I  don't  know;  she  said  she  was  going  to  be  busy.  But,  oh, 
Aunt  Isabel,'  u.id  May  lifted  a  joyous  face,  *  I  am  to  have  a 


310  ATHERSTONE  PEIORY. 

chicken !  Mrs  Pye  is  going  to  give  me  one — a  real  chicken !  I  *m 
to  go  every  day  and  see  it.  She  gave  me  a  cake  too/  and  May 
fumbled  in  a  small  pocket,  and  produced  a  cake  in  rather  a  dila- 
pidated condition.  '  Do  you  like  plumcake^  Aunt  Isabel  ?  It 's 
very  nice.' 

'  Thank  you,  my  darling;  but  I  won't  take  it  all/  Isabel  said, 
breaking  off  a  small  piece.  Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  dis- 
tressed her  little  niece  by  telling  her  the  proffered  dainty  was  by 
no  means  in  so  inviting  a  condition  as  it  might  have  been. 
*  You  must  have  some  of  it  too,'  she  added.  '  But  suppose  you 
leave  it  for  tea.     That  will  be  better  than  eating  it  now/ 

To  which  proposition  May  acceded ;  the  more  readily  because, 
as  she  confessed,  she  was  not  hungry,  having  already  had  more 
ginger-bread  at  Mrs  Pye's  than  she  wanted.  So  the  cake  was 
put  back  into  the  small  pocket,  being  this  time  wrapped  in  a 
piece  of  paper,  of  which  she  possessed  herself  for  the  purpose. 
The  paper  was  a  drawing  of  her  aunt's,  but  no  objection  was 
made.  She  did  what  she  liked  in  that  room ;  and  when  she 
turned  to  amuse  herself  with  Isabel's  paint-brushes  and  palettes, 
and  then,  still  talking  very  fast  of  what  she  had  been  doing  at 
Copelands,  proceeded  to  stick  her  fingers  into  the  clay  figure 
which  her  aunt  had  only  just  finished  modelling,  not  a  word  of 
remonstrance  was  offered.  But  though  well  aware  she  had  no 
cause  to  fear  rebuke  for  anything  she  chose  to  do  there.  May  dis- 
covered after  a  time  that  her  dear  Aunt  Isabel  looked  graver  than 
was  her  wont  when  they  were  alone  together,  and  did  not  listen 
with  her  accustomed  interest  to  what  was  said. 

*  Does  your  head  ache,  Aunt  Isabel  ? '  she  asked  at  last  in 
childish  sympathy ;  stopping  short  in  an  endeavour  to  stick  the 
head  again  upon  the  figure  she  had  been  mutilating. 

Isabel  looked  up.  *  No,  dear,  not  at  all.  What  makes  you 
think  so  r 

'  You  look  so  sorry,'  was  the  rejoinder.  *  I  thought,'  pursued 
May  after  a  pause,  '  I  thought  you  would  have  been  glad  now 
papa  is  coming  home.' 

Isabel  was  silent ;  but  she  winced  visibly  at  the  words. 

*  Don't  you  want  him  back  1 '  May  went  on.  *  Won't  you  be 
glad  to  see  him  again*?     I  thought  you  would.' 

*  Yes,  dear,  so  I  shall  j '  Isabel  spoke  with  an  effort.  '  May, 
my  darling,'  she  added  hastily,  '  open  the  door  for  Prince ;  he 
wants  to  come  in.' 


^LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COME,  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE.'  311 

May  whisked  off  in  a  great  Imrry  ;  and  Prince  being  admitted, 
a  romp  ensued  for  some  minutes  between  dog  and  child,  which 
occasioned  no  little  confusion  among  Isabel's  various  scattered 
possessions.  The  game,  though,  did  not  serve  to  do  more  than 
divert  the  child's  thoughts  for  the  time,  and  she  presently  began 
again — 

*  I  wonder  what  papa  is  like,  and  whether  he  '11  be  kind  to 
me.  Do  you  think  he  will ;  or  will  he  be  angry  because  I  don't 
know  anything?  Aunt  Nelly  called  me  a  little  dunce  this 
morning.' 

And,  truth  to  say,  Aunt  Nelly  had  not  been  far  wrong  in  that 
assertion ;  for  a  greater  ignoramus  at  nearly  six  years  old  than 
Miss  Lisa  Mary  Tennent  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find.  Let- 
ters were  still  a  mystery  to  her,  and  a  mystery  not  likely  to  be 
soon  solved  with  her  consent ;  and  in  every  other  branch  of 
learning  she  was  equally  deficient — a  fact  to  be  accounted  for  by 
her  delicate  health,  which  had  long  been  a  source  of  uneasiness 
to  those  who  had  the  charge  of  her.  But  unwearied,  watchful 
care,  and  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  exercise,  had  brought  her  through 
the  common  ailments  of  childhood ;  and  thc^ugh  still  fragile-look- 
ing, she  was  no  longer  the  subject  of  anxiety  she  had  once  been. 

'  Do  you  love  papa,  Aunt  Isabel  ? '  sbe  went  on  after  a  pause. 
*  You  never  talk  to  me  about  him  as  Aunt  Mary  does.  You  don't 
care  for  him,  do  you  ] ' 

Isabel  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  '  Yes,  dear,  indeed  I  do.  I  care  for  him  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.'  She  spoke  quietly,  but  something  in  her  tone  made  May 
look  up ;  and  she  gazed  at  her  wonderingly  on  seeing  her  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

'  What  have  I  said,  Aunt  Isabel  1  Why  have  I  made  you  cry  1  * 
she  exclaimed,  throwing  her  arms  round  her  with  childish  impetu- 
osity.    '  Oh,  I  'm  sorry  ! ' 

*  My  darling,  there  's  nothing  to  be  sorry  for.'  But  somehow 
that  childish  sympathy  upset  Isabel  completely.  She  could  not 
check  her  tears  ;  and  May  grew  impetuous. 

*  Then  it 's  papa  ! '  she  exclaimed  indignantly.  *  I  won't  like 
him  if  he  makes  you  cry.    I  '11  never  love  him — never,  never ' 

*  Hush,  May,  dearest,  hush !  You  mustn't  talk  like  that, 
my  darling.  There  is  no  one  I  want  to  see  more  than  your  papa 
— I  'm  tired  of  waiting  for  him.  May — tired  of  waiting  all  these 
long  years.     And  now* she  paused. 


312  ATHERSTONE  PEIOEY. 

^  And  now  you  are  glad  ! '  May  said,  doubtfully — ^  glad  that 
he  '11  be  here  in  six  weeks  ! ' 

^  Very  glad.'     There  was  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

'  Then,  Aunt  Isabel,  why  did  you  cry  1  Why  do  you  look  so 
Borry  1 ' 

Isabel  hesitated.  '  I  can't  tell  you,  dearest ;  never  mind,'  she 
said  at  last.  ^  I  was  thinking  of  a  great  many  things — things 
that  happened  long  ago — but  never  mind  them  now,'  she  added, 
forcing  a  smile.  ^  We  are  only  going  to  talk  of  pleasant  things 
now.  We  must  think  how  glad  he  will  be  to  come  back,  and  see 
his  little  May — it  will  make  him  very  happy,  dear,  to  have  some 
one  to  love  and  care  for  him,  when  he  has  been  so  lonely  all  this 
time.'  And  with  an  effort,  which  she  had  hitherto  thought  it 
impossible  to  make,  she  overcame  the  painful  reserve  that  had 
always  hung  over  her  when  her  brother's  name  was  m-eTitioned, 
and  for  the  first  time  spoke  of  him  voluntarily  to  his  child — tell- 
ing her  of  his  kindness,  his  cleverness,  and  his  bravery  ;  till  May 
began  to  think  she  knew  him  quite  well,  and  was  ready  once 
more,  as  she  always  was  when  Mary  talked  to  her  in  a  similar 
way,  to  look  upon  his  coming  as  a  very  pleasant  thing. 

A  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  request  that  *  Miss  Isabel  would 
go  down,  for  there  were  visitors  in  the  drawing-room,'  was  an 
unwelcome  interruption  to  both  of  them ;  and  more  particularly 
to  Isabel.  It  was  with  a  sigh  that  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and 
advising  May  to  go  and  look  for  George  in  the  garden,  slowly 
obeyed  her  mother's  summons.  There  were  several  callers  in  the 
room  ;  but  two  well-known  figures  caught  her  eye  as  she  entered, 
one  seated  on  a  sofa  beside  her  mother,  the  other  standing  apart 
at  one  of  the  windows.  They  were  Sir  Cunninghame  Thorpe  and 
his  bride,  once  Ada  Thetford — he,  handsome  as  ever,  and  quite  as 
much  alive  to  the  fact ;  she,  pretty  and  elegantly  dressed,  but 
hardly  looking  as  happy  as  a  young  wife  of  three  months  might 
be  supposed  to  do.  There  were  people,  indeed,  who  said  Sir 
Cunninghame  was  already  tiring  of  his  bride,  and  that  poor  Lady 
Thorpe  found  her  new  home  at  the  Moat  very  far  from  the  para- 
dise she  had,  perhaps,  supposed  it  before  coming  there.  But  this 
was  envy,  of  course — no  one  could  really  suppose  Ada's  lot  was 
anything  but  happy ! 

She  rose  eagerly  now.  Was  it  because  Isabel  knew  something 
of  her  mother,  and  could  talk  with  her  of  her  old  home,  that 
she  welcomed  her  so  warmly  ?     So  the  latter  thought,  fqr  she 


^LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COME,  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE.'  313 

began  at  once  about  Gainsford  friends  and  Gainsford  news  ; 
appearing  so  interested  in  them  that  she  never  once  reverted  to 
her  present  life.  Isabel  asked  once  about  some  improvements 
that  had  lately  been  made  at  the  Moat,  and  whether  she  liked  the 
place  now. 

*  Oh,  it 's  all  very  well,'  she  answered  in  a  listless  tone.  '  I 
don't  know  what  it  was  like  before,  but  Cunninghame  says  he 
has  done  so  much,  that  I  suppose  it  must  be  improved  in  some 
way.  It  always  seems  to  me  very  dreary.  I  like  a  nice  light 
modern  house ;  those  old  ones  are  so  gloomy.' 

Isabel  smiled  a  little.  *  People  never  tell  us  so  of  ours,'  she  re- 
marked with  a  glance  round  the  low  old-fashioned  room  in  which 
they  were  sitting. 

'  Ko,  indeed,  but  I  forgot  yours  was  so  old,  it  looks  so  com- 
fortable ;  and  then  you  are  a  large  party,  that  makes  all  the 
difference  ; '  with  a  sigh.  ^  We  were  a  large  party,  too,  at  home, 
and  our  house  wasn't  very  modern,  but  we  were  never  dull. 
You  remember  Fairfield,  don't  you  ? '  speaking  eagerly,  ^  it  was 
so  pleasant  there,  and  there  were  such  nice  gardens.  Papa  was 
building  a  new  conservatory  when  I  came  away,  and  I  wanted 
to  have  one  like  it  here  ;  but  Cunninghame  says  it  can't  be 
managed.  I  'm  so  sorry  j  I  should  like  to  have  had  something 
here  like  home.' 

^  You  don 't  think  of  the  Moat,  then,  as  your  home  1 '  Isabel 
said;  and  Ada  coloured  and  glanced  at  her  husband. 

*  Oh,  yes  ;  but  I  don 't  think  we  either  of  us  like  it  very  much. 
Cunninghame  says  it 's  dull,  and  sometimes  he  talks  of  letting  it 
and  going  to  live  somewhere  else.  If  he  would  only  go  back  to 
Gainsford,  but  I  'm  afraid  there 's  no  chance  of  that.  He  talks 
of  London  for  part  of  the  year  ;  and  I  hate  London.  It  would 
be  dreadful  to  be  shut  up  there  always  in  the  season.' 

Isabel  was  silent ;  she  thought  it  as  well  to  let  the  subject 
drop,  and  after  a  pause  returned  to  some  Gainsford  topic  which 
diverted  Ada's  thoughts,  until  a  piece  of  news  mentioned  by  Eose 
Dacre  caught  every  one's  attention. 

*  O  Mrs  Tennent ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  what  do  you  think  we 
heard  as  we  w^ere  coming  here  to-day *?  I  suppose  it's  true, 
because  Mr  Williams  told  us ;  but  it  seems  so  odd,  I  can  hardly 
believe  it.' 

'  Mr  Williams  ! '  said  Mrs  Tennent  in  rather  a  freezing  tone, 

*  Yes,  Williams  of  the  brewery,  you  know  him  surely  ?     We 


314  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

were  calling  there  to-day  to  give  some  order,  and  he  told  papa 
that  the  new  rector  is  coming  to  St.  Jude's  next  week — that 's  ! 
news,  isn't  it  ?     And  who  do  you  think  he  is  1     Now,  do  guess ;  ; 
it 's  so  very  strange/  i 

Mrs  Tennent  shook  her  head.  *  I  don 't  know  in  the  least,  i 
All  I  can  hope  is  that  he  is  some  hard-working  man.  The  \ 
parish  has  been  shockingly  neglected ;  and  they  are  all  a  sad  \ 
heathenish  set  there.  They  ought  to  have  some  one  who  will  ] 
give  himself  up  to  his  work,  and  not  leave  everything  to  his  curate,  \ 
some  young  fellow  just  ordained,  as  old  Mr  Elwes  used  to  do.' 

Kose  laughed ;  a  smothered  laugh  of  amusement.  *  Perhaps  i 
he  won't  keep  a  curate  at  all.  I  should  say  not ;  for  he  is  quite  ! 
young  enough  to  do  the  work  himself.'  *  What  do  you  say  to  ' 
Arthur  Darrell !  Yes,  it 's  quite  true,'  as  Mrs  Tennent  turned  j 
to  her  sharply ;  *  Mr  Williams  is  one  of  the  churchwardens,  and  : 
of  course  he  must  know.     He  is  coming  next  Tuesday.' 

*  Ahem  ! '  Mrs  Tennent  coughed  and  was  silent ;  and  there  was 
a  dead  pause  in  the  room.  ! 

Poor  Rose  !  She  was  famous  for  introducing  inconvenient  J 
subjects,  and  the  air  of  triumphant  satisfaction  with  which  she  j 
had  looked  round  after  imparting  this  piece  of  information,  was  i 
considerably  damped  on  perceiving  the  effect  it  produced  upon  , 
some  of  the  party;  Mrs  Tennent s  look  of  haughty  displeasure  \ 
being  too  marked  to  escape  the  notice  of  any ;  while  Elinor's  ^ 
confusion  at  the  mention  of  Arthur's  name,  raised  the  pity  of  ] 
everybody.  Isabel  was  the  first  to  recover  herself,  and  by  lead-  \ 
ing  the  conversation  back  to  old  Mr  Elwes,  contrived  to  intro-  * 
duce  some  topic  which  could  be  discussed  with  safety.  But  j 
when  every  one  was  talking  again,  Ada  turned  to  her.  ] 

*  I  know  something  of  your  cousin.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  \ 
of  him,  when  I  have  been  staying  with  my  uncle  at  Peele  ;  and  ] 
I  like  him  very  much.  I  should  think  he  is  just  the  man  for  i 
St.  Jude's,  he  goes  to  work  so  heartily ;  and  he  is  an  immense  >. 
favourite  with  everybody.'  j 

'  Is  he  1  We  know  nothing  of  him  now ;  we  have  not  seen  \ 
him  for  years.' 

^    ^No,  I  know.     But  surely' Ada  spoke  with  some  hesita-  ! 

tion,  *  it  is  so  long  ago,  and  he  is  so  altered ' she  stopped.       j 

*  It  was  not  a  thing  mamma  was  likely  to  forgive,'  Isabel  said,  i 
*  I  wonder  he  likes  to  come  here,'  she  added  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  ; 
speaking  to  herself  rather  than  her  companion,  i 


^LONG  YEARS  HAVE  COMEj  LONG  YEARS  HAVE  GONE.'  315 

*  People  don^t  care  to  throw  away  a  living ;  especially  when 
they  are  not  likely  to  have  many  offered  to  them,'  Ada  answered, 
trying  to  smile.  *  Besides,  don't  you  think — perhaps  he  may 
hope ' 

'  If  he  has  such  hopes,  he  will  be  very  much  disappointed,'  re- 
turned Isabel  gravely.  *  He  knows  well  enough,  mamma  would 
never  overlook  anything  of  that  sort ;  and  if  he  cared  for  Elinor, 
he  ought  to  have  more  consideration  for  her  feelings  than  to  run 
the  chance  of  being  thrown  in  her  way,  as  he  must  if  he  comes 
here.  But  he  never  used  to  think  of  any  one  but  himself  and  his 
own  pleasure ;  and  apparently  he  goes  a  good  deal  on  the  same 
principle  now.' 

Ah,  Isabel !  where  were  her  thoughts  of  an  hour  before,  her 
longings  for  the  charity  which  thinks  no  evil. 

Ada  said  no  more,  and  an  impatient  summons  to  '  Lady 
Thorpe '  from  Sir  Cunninghame,  who  was  wishing  to  go,  made 
her  take  her  leave  rather  hurriedly.  Elinor's  eye  followed  them 
as  they  left  the  room ;  and  when  the  door  closed  upon  them, 
she  turned  to  her  sister  with  a  smile. 

*'*Lady  Thorpe!"  And  not  married  three  months!  Poor 
Ada!' 

*/'Poor  Ada!'"  said  Mrs  Tennent  sharply,  overhearing  the 
remark.  'I  see  nothing  "pooi*"  about  her.  What  are  you 
pitying  her  for  ?  It  is  some  other  people  in  my  opinion  who 
ought  to  be  pitied !  Those  who  don't  know  what  is  best  for 
them,  and  who  never  exert  themselves  for  their  own  interest. 
But  Lady  Thorpe  !  Nonsense !  I  wish  you  had  shown  half  her 
wisdom,  Elinor;  you  would  have  been  much  better  off  than  you 
are  now,  or  ever  will  be  !' 

*  Have  you  heard  this  about  Arthur?'  she  asked  her  husband 
that  evening,  in  her  shortest,  driest  tones.  *  Do  you  know  that 
he  is  coming  back  to  Atherstone  V 

'Yes,  I  have  heard  it,'  the  doctor  answered.  'And  a  good 
thing  for  him  it  is!  It  is  King's  doing,  it  seems;  he  knows 
Lord  Dyneworth,  and,  directly  he  heard  old  Elwes  was  dead, 
wrote  off  to  him,  without  saying  a  word  to  Arthur,  and  got  his 
promise  at  once.  It  speaks  well  for  Arthur,  that^  my  dear.  He 
will  be  a  great  loss  at  Peele,  they  say.' 

'  A  great  pity  he  didn't  stay  there,  then,  for  he  is  not  wanted 
here.  I  think,  Dr  Tennent,  after  all  that  has  passed,  it  would 
have  been  as  well  if  he  had  kept  out  of  our  way.    I  don't  under- 


316  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

stand  his  coming  to  the  place,  "when  he  knows  we  shall  not  ] 
receive  him.'  ; 

'But,  my  dear,  what  could  he  do  ?'  was  the  good-humoured  l 
answer.  *  A  man  can't  throw  away  a  provision  for  life,  even  if  \ 
he  is  under  your  displeasure ' j 

*  And  yours  ;  you  were  as  angry  as  I  was,  doctor.  I  hope  you  J 
don't  mean  you  are  going  to  change  now,  simply  because  his  ; 
circumstances  have  changed.  It  will  be  very  wrong  of  you,  if  \ 
you  do.'  \ 

The  doctor  coughed  a  little.  '  My  dear,  my  objection  to  him  ] 
before  was,  that  I  thought  him  unsteady  in  his  principles,  as  he  | 
showed  himself  by  leading  Elinor  into  such  an  engagement,  j 
And  as  he  had  no  profession  then,  and  was  not  likely  to  have  a  , 
home  to  give  her  for  years,  I  would  not  let  her  consider  herself  \ 
bound  by  any  promise  to  him.  If  he  had  chosen  to  come  forward  \ 
openly  and  honourably,  it  would  have  been  very  different ;  I  j 
might  have  let  her  wait  for  him ;  as  it  was,  he  was  not  worth  it.  • 
If  he  is  changed  though,  now,'  for  the   better,  as  well  as    his  i 

prospects,  I  don't  see — eh,  Helen?' stopping  short  rather  \ 

doubtfully.  i 

'  Don't  see  what  ?  I  don't  see  that  his  having  a  house  and  ! 
four  or  five  hundred  a  year  alters  the  past,  or  makes  him  have  i 
behaved  one  whit  better,  if  yot  mean  that.'  1 

*  Certainly  not.  I  only  meant  that  the  past  might  be  past.  | 
And  I  can't  help  thinking  Nelly  would  be  very  glad  to  see  him  i 
again.  She  has  behaved  very  well  all  these  years,  Helen;  and  1 
if  she  still  thinks  of  him,  and  he  is  of  the  same  mind  too,  it  \ 
seems  hard  to  keep  them  apart  any  longer.' 

*  Elinor  is  a  goose,'  was  the  angry  rejoinder,  as  a  recollection  of  \ 
her  daughter's  blushing  face,  when  Arthur  had  been  spoken  of  ; 
that  afternoon,  rose  to  Mrs  Tennent's  mind.  *  If  she  had  done  ; 
as  she  ought,  she  would  have  forgotten  him  long  ago.  Why  \ 
didn't  she  marry  Mr  Powis  last  year,  as  any  sensible  girl  would  ; 
have  done  ?  And  now,  I  suppose,  she  thinks  she  is  sure  to  meet  ; 
Arthur  again  !  She  knows  you  well  enough,  and  how  easily  you  ; 
can  be  persuaded  into  anything.  But  I  am  not  going  to  have  it,  j 
doctor.     If  you  ask  him  to  come  here ' j 

'  My  dear,  I  don't  mean  to  ask  him,'  said  the  doctor  meekly,  s 

'  Of  course  I  shall  do  nothing  you  don't  wish ;  only ' \ 

*  Only  you  want  everybody  to  do  as  they  like ;  and  if  he  got  \ 
hold  of  you  to-morrow,  he  could  talk  you  into  anything  he  pleased.  I 


ST  jude's  rectory.  317 

1  know  you,  Dr  Tennent.     You  liaven't  a  spark  of  firmness  or 
moral  courage  about  you/ 

The  doctor  laughed.  Fortunately,  he  never  took  anything 
amiss  that  his  wife  chose  to  say. 

*  You  have  enough  for  both  of  us,  my  dear/  was  all  his  answer 
now,  with  a  very  long  yawn. 

*  I  know  it,  and  I  mean  to  prove  it,  too.  Arthur  does  not 
enter  this  house  again — that  is  my  determination.  He  will  try 
to  meet  Elinor,  no  doubt — of  course  he  will — that  is  what  he  is 
coming  here  for.  And  they  will  marry  after  all,  I  daresay  ; 
but  it  will  not  be  with  my  consent.  They  may  make  a  runaway 
match  of  it  if  they  like ;  and  a  nice  creditable  thing  that  will 
be  for  him !  A  pretty  clergyman  he  must  make !  And  going 
to  work  a  reformation  !  He  had  better  reform  himself  first  ; 
practise  before  he  preaches,  I  say.  However,  you  hear  what  my 
wishes  are,  Dr  Tennent.  I  never  want  to  speak  to  him  again^ 
and  it  is  my  express  desire  that  none  of  my  family  do  so.  Do 
you  hear,  doctor  1 '  raising  her  voice. 

*  Quite  well,  my  dear,  thank  you.     I  am  not  at  all  deaf.' 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
ST  jude's  rectory. 


Some  weeks  had  passed  since  that  afternoon,  and  it  was  now  a 
glowing  day  in  May.  The  green  blinds  in  the  dining-room  at 
St  Jude's  Eectory  were  drawn  down  to  keep  out  the  noonday  sun, 
and  the  air  around  felt  close  and  sultry.  Every  one  was  com- 
plaining more  or  less  of  the  heat,  which  had  come  so  unex- 
pectedly ;  every  one  but  Arthur  Darrell,  who  on  that  particular 
day  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair  in  the  little  room  in  his 
new   home,  which   served   him   as   dining,  drawing-room,  and 


318  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

library  all  in  one,  and  who  was  so  busy  writing  that  lie  bad  not 
a  thought  to  give  to  weather  cold  or  hot,  fine  or  rainy.  He  was 
hard  at  work  on  his  next  Sunday  morning's  sermon,  and  so 
that  he  got  that  finished,  other  things  were  of  little  consequence 
to  him.  The  last  page,  and  almost  the  last  sentence  was  reached,  *i 
when  the  striking  of  the  clock,  and  immediately  afterwards  a  ^ 
knock  at  the  door,  roused  him  from  his  labours.  I 

*Come  in,'  he  said,  looking  up.  '0  Mrs  Clarke,  is  it  you^'  \ 
as  an  old  woman  appeared  with  a  dinner-tray.  *  You  11  have  to  \ 
wait,  I  think.  Or — yes,  just  push  those  books  away  from  that  ] 
end  of  the  table,  and  set  the  things  down  there.*  ] 

He  went  on  writing  very  fast;  while  Mrs  Clarke  toddled  \ 
about,  making  a  good  deal  of  noise  with  her  thick  boots,  and  ' 
grunting  out  apologies  when  she  two  or  three  times  knocked  | 
down  some  of  the  books  in  moving  them.  There  might  have  : 
been  a  large  party  going  to  dine  there,  from  the  time  she  took  ■ 
for  her  operations ;  but  the  cloth  was  laid  at  last,  and  a  knife  \ 
and  fork,  &c.,  having  been  spread  upon  it,  she  toddled  off  again  | 
in  search  of  the  dinner  itself.  She  had  not  been  gone  two  ] 
minutes  when  her  steps  were  heard  returning,  and  there  was  ; 
another  knock.  i 

^  Please,  sir,  Milly  Brown 's  sent  for  some  meat  you  promised 
her.'  ; 

*  All  right ;  I  told  her  to  send  at  half- past  one,  and  we  should  | 
have  something  she  would  like.  What  have  you  got  for  i 
herr  j 

*  Please,  sir,  there  ain't  nothing.  I  've  just  eat  up  all  the  cold  ; 
meat :  and  there 's  only  the  chops  for  you.'  \ 

'  Chops  !  oh,  the  very  thing.     Let  her  have  one.'  \ 

*  Please,  sir,  there  ain't  only  two,'  opening  her  eyes,  and  coming  \ 
a  little  further  into  the  room.  | 

*  Very  well ;  give  her  the  biggest,  then,  if  it 's  a  nice  one ;  she  [ 
won't  eat  more  than  that.'  • 

'But' Mrs   Clarke  was  evidently  disturbed  in  mind,  i 

*  What  am  I  to  do,  sir  ?     One  won't  be  enough  for  you.     Am  I  ^ 
to  go  for  more  1  * 

*  No ;  I  can't  wait — I  'm  going  out.  You  can  bring  me  some  ] 
bread  and  cheese  ;  that  will  do  as  well.'  j 

He  was  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  whistling  j 
thoughtfully  to  himself  as  he  did  so ;  but  Mrs  Clarke  was  still  ] 
uneasy.     She  closed  the  door,  and  then  said  in  a  whisper —  \ 


ST  jude's  rectory.  319 

^  Awful  bad  woman,  sir,  that  Milly  Brown.' 
as  she?' 

*  Ay,  that  she  is.  I  thought  maybe  you  had  heard  nothing 
about  her.  And  her  family  is  all  Methodies.  So  is  she,  for  the 
matter  of  that ;  if  she 's  any  religion  at  all.' 

' Oh  !     And  don't  Methodies  eat  meat,  then?* 

Mrs  Clarke  stared.    *  Law,  sir,  I  suppose  so,  if  they  can  get  it.* 

'  Then    perhaps    you  wouldn't   object   to  let   her  have  that 

mutton-chop ;  and  if  she  's  a  quarter  as  hungry  as  I  am,  she  '11 

be  glad  of  it.     I  'm  just  famishing.' 

*  Yes,  sir,  that 's  because  you  didn't  eat  your  breakfast  this 
morning.  You  let  old  Giles  take  you  away  before  you  'd  half 
finished  it.  And  you  can't  do  nothing,  sir,  if  you  don't  have 
your  meals  regular ;  excuse  my  saying  it.' 

*  It  is  a  fact  I  'm  quite  aware  of,  Mrs  Clarke.  May  I  have 
my  dinner  now  V 

'  To  be  sure,  sir ;  it 's  all  ready  long  ago.  And  Milly  Brown 's 
to  have  that  chop,  is  she  1 ' 

*  If  you  please ;  and  anything  else  you  can  send  with  it — any- 
thing that  Methodies  will  eat,  I  mean.' 

^  Well,  sir,  as  far  as  that  goes,  they  '11  eat  most  things,  I  believe,' 
said  Mrs  Clarke  solemnly.  *  They  're  not  like  the  Catholics  that 
I  've  heard  say  won't  eat  anything  their  priests  don't  let  them. 
But  the  Methodies,  oh,  they  '11  eat  anything ;  they  ain't  noways 
particular.' 

She  left  the  room ;  and  Arthur  resumed  his  whistling  and  his 
walk  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  dinner.  He  did  not  linger 
long  over  it  when  it  came,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  first 
sitting  down,  he  was  once  more  in  motion,  hurrying  off  to  his 
girls'  school,  a  room  hired  for  the  purpose  in  a  small  back  street 
some  distance  from  the  rectory.  There  was  no  schoolhouse  as 
yet,  though  one  was  in  contemplation ;  and  boys  and  girls  were 
consequently  distributed  in  different  localities ;  their  numbers, 
however,  jointly  not  amounting  to  more  than  seventy  or  eighty. 
This  was  already  an  improvement,  though,  on  a  few  weeks  back, 
when  thirty  had  been  the  outside  of  the  attendance  there,  and 
that  by  no  means  a  regular  one.  There  were  a  great  many  little 
heads  raised  now  from  their  books  and  work  when  Arthur  came 
in,  and  a  great  many  smiling  looks  followed  him  as  he  walked 
among  them,  speaking  first  to  one  and  then  to  another,  taking 
up  their  books  to  see  what  they  were  learning,  and  asking  droll 


320  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

questions  to  find  out  how  much  they  knew  about  the  lesson. 
Nearly  an  hour's  reading  and  explanations  with  the  first  class 
followed,  and  then  he  was  off  again  for  several  visits  amongst 
the  very  poorest  of  his  parishioners — people  who  lived  in  the 
lowest  of  the  many  low  courts  and  alleys  v/ith  which  the  district 
abounded ;  where  foul  smells  and  a  close  reeking  atmosphere 
greeted  him  at  every  step,  and  where  the  pure  breath  of  heaven 
seemed  never  to  have  penetrated. 

*  They  '11  be  having  some  horrible  fever  here  one  of  these  days,' 
he  said  to  himself,  taking  a  jump  across  a  gutter  which  appeared 
to  have  received  the  outpourings  of  all  the  houses  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  then  pausing  for  a  moment  before  a  door 
from  which  some  particularly  overpowering  odour  proceeded. 
^  Surely  something  might  be  done  for  the  drainage  here ;  it 's 
enough  to  breed  a  pestilence ;  and  in  such  weather  as  this, 
too!' 

He  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  in  thought,  looking  down  the 
close,  filthy  alley,  on  which  the  hot  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun 
were  streaming ;  and  then  went  on  up  the  creaking  staircase 
leading  to  different  rooms,  each  occupied  by  its  respective  family 
or  families,  in  various  stages  of  want  and  misery.  He  was  at 
home  in  one  and  all  of  them,  and  contrived,  somehow,  to  win  a 
welcome  from  most  of  their  occupants,  although  there  were  a  few 
who  at  first  looked  rather  coldly  on  the  'new  parson,'  and 
seemed  disposed  to  regard  his  visits  as  an  interference.  But 
Arthur  did  not  interfere.  To  make  friends  first,  before  attempt- 
ing anything  else,  was  his  plan  of  proceeding ;  and  he  listened 
to  and  sympathised  with  their  troubles,  but  found  no  fault,  and 
did  very  little,  at  present,  even  in  the  way  of  suggesting  or 
advising.  Many  of  them  were  old,  and  he  was  young ;  and  many 
more  were  deplorably  ignorant,  and  had  prejudices  against  which 
it  would  have  been  useless,  on  a  first  acquaintance,  to  combat. 
He  did  not  attempt  it,  but  set  to  work  to  make  friends  with  all ; 
and  most  of  them  responded  to  his  amicable  advances  :  many  of 
those  who  had  been  at  first  inclined  to  resist  them,  giving  way, 
after  a  time,  before  his  genial  manner  and  easy  off-hand  way. 
'  He  was  a  nice  gentleman,  and  hadn't  a  bit  of  pride  about  him,' 
was  the  opinion  pronounced  by  several,  in  discussing  him  after- 
wards ;  and  there  were  some  houses  which  felt  all  the  brighter 
for  his  visit  that  afternoon.  The  effect  upon  himself,  however, 
of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  was  not  cheering ;  and  as  he 


ST  jude's  beotory.  321 

left,  his  step  was  slower  than  it  had  been.,  and  he  looked  weary 
and  jaded. 

An  hour  later  he  was  coming  out  of  a  cottage  where  he  had 
been  paying  a  visit,  and  the  garden  of  which  opened  into  a  lane 
on  the  Copelands  road,  when  he  heard  a  child's  voice  in  distress. 
He  looked  round,  and  not  many  paces  from  him  saw  a  little  girl, 
with  a  large  doll  in  her  arms,  standing  on  the  defensive  against 
a  huge  dog,  which,  although  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  its 
intentions,  was  bent  on  having  a  game  of  play  with  her.  She 
evidently  suspected  it  of  murderous  designs  on  her  treasure,  and 
her  fear  and  perplexity  were  very  great. 

*  Get  away,  you  great  big  thing,'  she  was  saying  in  a  tone 
which  was  meant  to  be  threatening,  but  which,  from  inward  per- 
turbation, sounded  so  mild  that  the  'big  thing'  no  doubt  thought 
he  was  asked  to  come  a  little  nearer;  and  wagged  his  tail 
formidably  in  response  to  the  invitation.  '  Get  away,  you  big 
creature,  you  have  no  business  here.  Go  away,  1  say,  this 
minute  ! '  And  she  gave  a  stamp  with  her  foot ;  at  which  the 
dog,  considering  this  part  of  a  game  in  which  he  was  to  take  his 
share,  gave  a  spring  and  a  bound  forwards,  frightening  the  child 
almost  out  of  her  senses,  and  drawing  a  scream  from  her,  though 
she  still  stood  her  ground  heroically  ;  not  daring  indeed  to  turn 
her  back,  for  fear  of  being  pursued  by  her  enemy.  Her  relief  at 
the  appearance  of  any  one  who  was  likely  to  stand  her  ally  in 
the  encounter  was  extreme  ;  and  she  flew  to  Arthur's  side, 

*  Take  him  away  !  Please  take  him  away.  He  frightens  me 
and  Lady  Flora,'  with  another  little  shriek  as  the  dog  made  an 
advance.  She  caught  Arthur's  hand,  and  clung  to  it  convulsively; 
nor  did  she  let  it  go  until  with  his  stick  he  had  driven  the  big 
dog  off,  and  she  had  seen  it  turn  tail  and  slink  into  one  of  the 
gardens  near.  Then  she  seemed  to  remember  that  the  gentle- 
man whose  protection  she  had  implored  was  a  stranger  to  her ; 
and  she  drew  away  her  hand,  and  looked  demurely  shy. 

*You  needn't  be  afraid  of  him  now,'  Arthur  said  kindly. 
*  But  I  '11  take  you  past  these  cottages,  and  then  you  '11  be  sure 
of  not  meeting  him  again.     Which  way  were  you  going  ? ' 

She  pointed  to  a  farmhouse  at  the  turning  of  the  lane.  '  I 
only  came  up  here  to  get  some  flowers,'  she  said.  *  I  had  got  a 
great  many,  when  that  big  dog  came  and  frightened  me  and 
Lady  Flora,'  kissing  her  doll.     '  But  I'll  go  back  now.' 

She  raised  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  and  for  the  first  time  he 

X 


322  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

caught  sight  of  her  face,  which  before  had  been  so  shaded  by 
her  hat  that  he  had  seen  nothing  but  the  long  curls  which  fell 
over  her  shoulders.  But  now,  as  she  looked  up,  he  started. 
Those  large  eyes,  that  hair,  those  features,  brought  back  a  vision 
of  girlish  loveliness  that  belonged  to  years  gone  by — a  vision  of 
the  cousin  whose  early  death  had  been  in  part  caused  by  his  own 
wrong-doing.  He  could  not  be  mistaken,  surely — that  must  be 
her  child  before  him;  and  he  was  strangely  moved  at  the 
thought. 

*  What  is  your  name,  my  little  girl  ? '  he  said,  stooping  down, 
that  he  might  the  better  see  that  face,  and  look  into  the  dark 
wondering  eyes. 

^  May,'  was  the  answer  with  some  shyness,  and  she  hugged  her 
doll  again. 

*  May  1     May  what  V  he  asked. 

*Not  May  anything — it  isn't  May  at  all  really;  it^s  Lisa 
Mary  Tennent ;  only  they  call  me  May.' 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  he  looked  at  her  so  long  and  ear- 
nestly that  she  grew  a  little  uneasy. 

'  May  I  go  now  V  she  said.  '  Aunt  Nelly  is  down  there ;  she  '11 
be  waiting  for  me.     May  I  go  f 

*  Yes,  certainly.  Good-bye,  little  lady ; '  but  she  looked  at 
him  again — evidently  she  was  not  satisfied. 

*  Won't  you  come  with  me  1  You  said  you  would ;'  speaking 
very  shyly,  and  the  colour  coming  into  her  face  as  she  glanced 
towards  the  place  where  her  enemy  had  disappeared. 

*  What,  past  those  cottages  ?  To  be  sure  I  will.  I  had  for- 
gotten.' He  held  out  his  hand,  which  she  took  in  a  very  confid- 
ing manner ;  present  fears  overcoming  her  natural  shyness  with 
strangers,  and  they  walked  on  together ;  Arthur,  however,  kept 
strangely  silent  by  the  grasp  of  that  little  hand,  and  May  too 
busy  making  apprehensive  observations  on  the  hedges  as  they 
passed,  to  notice  his  silence  or  say  anything  herself.  They  had 
cleared  the  last  of  the  houses,  when  a  figure  appeared  at  the 
turning  coming  out  from  the  farm,  and  she  exclaimed  joyfully — 

*  There 's  Aunt  Nelly  !    She 's  looking  for  me  !' 

Arthur  raised  his  head.  Yes,  there  was  Elinor  standing  by 
the  farmhouse  gate ;  and  as  the  evening  sunlight  fell  upon  her 
face,  he  could  almost  fancy  that  even  at  that  distance  he  could 
distinguish  her  features.  Did  she  see  and  know  him  too  1  He 
stopped  short. 


ST  jude's  rectory.  323 

*  I  can't  go  any  further,  my  little  girl ;  but  I'll  wait  here  till 
you  get  safe  to  your  aunt.  You  won't  be  afraid  to  go  alone  now, 
will  you  1  * 

'  No.     But — won't  you  come  with  me  V 

'  I  'm  going  the  other  way,'  he  said,  pointing  over  the  field. 
'  Good-bye.' 

May  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  as  she  met  the  smile  with 
which  he  was  looking  at  her,  she  held  out  the  flowers  she  had 
gathered. 

^  Will  you  take  them  V  she  said.  She  meant  them  by  way  of 
thanks,  but  she  had  no  sooner  given  them  than  she  was  seized 
with  a  fit  of  shyness,  and  without  waiting  for  a  word  in  return, 
ran  away  as  fast  as  her  little  feet  would  carry  her.  He  saw  her 
reach  Elinor's  side,  and  look  back  towards  the  place  where  he 
was  standing,  as  if  giving  some  explanation  of  what  she  had  been 
doing ;  and  then,  afraid  of  being  recognised,  he  retraced  his  steps 
quickly,  and  crossing  a  stile  at  some  little  distance,  made  his 
way  back  to  Atherstone. 

*  Why,  May  dear,  where  have  you  heenV  Elinor  said,  as  her 
little  niece  joined  her.  *  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere. 
Who  was  that  with  you  V 

*  I  don't  know ;  he  came  out  of  one  of  those  houses,  and  took 
care  of  me  past  a  great  big  dog  up  there.  I  went  to  get  some 
flowers,  and  the  dog  came  after  me,  and  wanted  to  eat  up  Lady 
Flora.  I  wouldn't  let  him,'  continued  May,  valiantly ;  ^  but  I 
was  very  frightened ;  and  then  that  gentleman  came  and  drove 
him  away.  He  had  such  a  nice  face,  and  such  nice  kind  eyes — 
just  like  yours.  Aunt  Nelly ;  and  do  you  know,  he  was  something 
like  you  too.' 

*  Like  me  !    Nonsense,  May  dear ! ' 

'  He  was.  He  was  really  like  you  a  little.  He  asked  me 
what  my  name  was  too,  and  I  told  him.  I  liked  his  face  very 
much,  only  he  looked  so  hard  at  me ;  and  he  looked  very  sorry 
too — I  don't  know  why.' 

Elinor  was  silent.  She  shaded  her  face  from  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  and  watched  the  retreating  figure  going  up  the  lane 
— watched  it  not  only  there,  but  across  one  of  the  distant  mea- 
dows until  it  was  lost  from  sight  behind  some  trees ;  and  even 
then  she  did  not  move.  She  stood  still  and  silent,  until  May, 
who  had  been  dancing  backwards  and  forwards  before  her,  recalled 
her  to  herself,  by  a  sudden  exclamation,  and  a  pause  in  her  steps. 


324  ATHERSTONB  PRIORY. 

'  0  Aunt  Nelly  !  Aunt  Nelly,  look  at  the  sky  !  how  pretty  it 
is!' 

And  then  she  saw  the  sun  had  gone  down,  and  remembered  it 
was  getting  very  late,  and  they  had  a  long  walk  before  them. 
So  they  turned  to  go  ;  and  all  the  way  home  May  talked  of  the 
gentleman  with  the  kind  eyes,  and  wondered  whether  she  should 
ever  see  him  again.  She  was  never  tired  of  describing  him,  and 
telling  what  he  had  said  to  her ;  until  Lane,  who,  with  every 
one  else  at  home,  came  in  for  an  account  of  her  adventure,  ex- 
claimed somewhat  indiscreetly — 

*  Why,  bless  the  child,  it  must  have  been  Mr  Arthur  himself ! 
No  doubt  of  it,  indeed — it 's  just  like  him  !' 

May  opened  a  pair  of  large  wondering  eyes.  *  Who  is  Mr 
Arthur?'  she  asked,  looking  veiy  much  puzzled. 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  May,  and  don't  be  troublesome!'  remarked 
Mrs  Tennent,  with  an  angry  glance  at  the  nurse.  *  Take  her 
away,  Lane.  It 's  time  she  was  in  bed,  instead  of  talking  non- 
sense here.' 

May  took  some  little  hops  across  the  room,  and  finished  by 
jumping  two  or  three  times  over  a  low  ottoman  that  stood  in  her 
way.  *  I  wasn't  talking  nonsense,'  she  said  in  a  very  audible 
tone.  ^  Aunt  Nelly,'  stopping  short  in  front  of  Elinor,  *  who  is 
Mr  Arthur  ?  Do  you  know  him  V  with  a  mischievous  glance  at 
Mrs  Tennent  as  she  spoke. 

Elinor's  face  flushed  crimson,  and  Mrs  Tennent's  anger  rose. 
'  May,  if  I  hear  you  ask  that  again,  or  talk  any  more  about  this 
walk  of  yours,  I  shall  whip  you.     Go  to  bed  this  minute.' 

At  which  speech  May  looked  very  much  astonished ;  but  being 
perfectly  aware  that  her  grandmother's  threats  were  never  uttered 
in  anything  but  sober  earnest,  departed  without  another  word ; 
though  not  apparently  in  a  very  subdued  frame  of  mind,  for  she 
dropped  a  funny  little  curtsey  at  the  door,  and  her  eyes  were 
dancing  with  suppressed  merriment  as  she  vanished.  She  rushed 
up-stairs  at  the  top  of  her  speed,  pausing  at  the  top  till  her  old 
nurse  came  up  too. 

'Lane  dear,'  she  said  in  a  whisper  then,  ^  who  is  Mr  Arthur] 
Won't  yow  tell  me?' 

*  Hush,  dear,'  said  Lane,  made  wise  by  Mrs  Tennent's  warn- 
ing look.     *  Hush ;  never  mind.' 

*  But  I  want  to  know.     Why  won't  you  tell  me  V 

*  I  can't,  dear.     Now  never  you  mind,'  returned  Lane  with 


ST  jude's  rectory.  325 

some  dignity.     *  Come  to  bed  like  a  good  child,  and  don't  ask 
any  more  questions.' 

*  But  why  not  V  persisted  May.  *  It 's  unkind  of  you,  Lane. 
I'll  ask  papa  when  he  comes  home — he  '11  tell  me  j'  in  a  tone  of 
triumph. 

*  Ay,  dear,  perhaps  he  will,'  said  Lane,  capturing  her  as  she 
seemed  inclined  to  take  a  swing  on  the  banisters.  *  Don't  you 
go  climbing  there,  Miss  May ;  you  '11  be  tumbling  over,  if  you 
don't  mind.' 

*I  know  he  will,'  May  said,  suffering  herself  to  be  led  off 
a  prisoner  to  the  nursery.  '  I  wonder  whether  papa  is  like 
him.  I  hope  he  is.  I  like  Mr  Arthur's  face  so  much  ;'  dwell- 
ing with  much  mischievous  satisfaction  upon  the  forbidden 
words. 

*  Ah,  Miss  May,  you  are  a  naughty  child,'  said  Lane,  trying 
to  appear  angry,  but  finishing  off  with  a  kiss.  '  But  you  mustn't 
talk  in  that  way ;  you  heard  what  your  grandmamma  said.' 

*  Yes,  I  know.  But  why  did  she,  Lane  1  Has  he  done  any- 
thing wrong  1     Oh,  but  he  can't  have  ;  he  looks  too  good.' 

*  Miss  May,  how  you  do  go  on,'  exclaimed  Lane,  despairingly. 
*  Can't  you  leave  off  talking,  and  sit  still  while  I  get  these  boots 
unfastened  ?     You  won't  be  in  bed  to-night.' 

'  Lane,  how  tiresome  you  are  !  You  never  tell  me  anything  !' 
And  May  gave  a  jerk  and  pulled  away  her  feet,  coiling  them  up 
under  her  on  the  chair,  and  not  being  persuaded  to  put  them  out 
again  without  a  great  deal  of  coaxing.  *  Well,  will  you  tell  me 
if  papa  is  like  him  V  she  said,  when  Lane  had  at  length  possessed 
herself  of  the  two  wriggling  little  feet.  *  You  may  tell  me  that. 
Is  her 

*  Not  a  bit.  Why,  dear,  you  've  seen  your  papa's  picture  often 
enough.     You  know  what  he  's  like,  surely  1 ' 

May's  face  fell.  ^  Aunt  Mary  says  that  was  his  picture  a  long, 
long  time  ago ;  and  I  thought  he  wasn't  the  same  now.  I  don't 
like  that  picture  very  much.  I  like  Mr — you  know  who — a  great 
deal  better.     He 's  much  beautifuller.' 

Lane  smiled  a  little.  *  Well,  never  mind  now,  my  darling. 
Wait  till  your  papa  comes,  and  then  you  '11  see  whether  you  like 
him  or  not.  You  mustn't  always  go  by  looks,  you  know,'  she 
added  sententiously.  *  And  now  come  to  bed,  there  's  a  good 
child.  It 's  past  eight,  and  you  ought  to  have  been  asleep  long 
ago.' 


326  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

So  May  was  carried  off  and  consigned  to  her  small  bed ;  her 
last  words  as  she  was  tucked  up  for  the  night  being,  '  that  she  won- 
dered where  Mr  Arthur  was,  and  hoped  she  should  see  him 
again  very  soon/ 

And  Arthur  sat  in  his  room  that  evening,  and  for  the  first 
time  felt  how  lonely  it  was.  His  class  being  gone,  and  Mrs 
Clarke  having  brought  in  his  tea,  he  was  left  in  undisturbed 
solitude ;  and  he  looked  round  the  silent  room  and  thought  how 
cheerless  and  unhomelike  it  was.  Never  had  the  table  with  its 
black  teapot  and  solitary  cap  and  saucer  looked  so  bare  as  it  did 
that  evening.  Not  even  May's  flowers,  which  stood  in  a  glass  at 
his  side,  could  brighten  the  place.  He  set  a  chair  at  last  oppo- 
site his  own,  and  tried  to  imagine  it  filled  by  the  person  he 
would  most  have  liked  to  see  there ;  but  it  was  hard  work  to 
keep  up  the  illusion,  and  he  went  back  in  thought  to  the  glimpse 
he  had  had  of  Elinor  that  evening.  And  then  he  found  himself 
fancying  what  they  were  all  doing  at  that  moment  at  the  Priory; 
and  wondering  what  changes  had  come  over  the  old  place  since 
the  days  when  he  had  been  one  of  them. 

But  these  were  thoughts  which  were  not  to  be  encouraged : 
so  he  started  up,  and  getting  out  his  desk,  plunged  into  a  calcu- 
lation of  what  the  costs  of  his  new  schoolrooms  were  likely  to 
be ;  and  in  making  rough  estimates  of  building  and  teachers* 
expenses,  and  forming  plans  for  parish  work,  he  contrived  to 
banish  for  the  time  all  recollections  of  the  Priory,  and  the  hopes 
that  had  once  been  centred  in  it. 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES.  327 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

DISAPPOINTED     HOPES. 

While  Arthur  sat  in  his  silent  room  that  evening,  a  different 
scene  was  going  on  at  the  Priory. 

They  were  a  small  party  there  now.  With  Mary  and  Con- 
stance away,  Fred  in  London  walking  the  hospitals,  and  Charley 
at  Rugby,  their  numbers  were  greatly  diminished;  and  Dr 
Tennent,  as  he  sat  in  his  easy-chair  after  tea  that  night, 
and  looked  about  him,  could  not  help  sighing  as  he  missed 
the  many  bright  faces  which  had  once  met  there.  Some  it 
was  useless  to  regret.  There  was  one — the  brightest  and  gayest 
of  all — who  had  long  passed  away,  not  only  from  her  own  home, 
but  from  all  earthly  care  and  love.  And  there  was  another  on 
whom  the  doors  of  that  home  were  closed,  and  who,  though  living 
so  near,  must  be  a  stranger  to  those  who  had  once  so  warmly 
welcomed  him.  But  there  were  others  who,  although  absent  for 
a  time,  might  yet  come  back ;  and  the  doctor,  who  liked  nothing 
better  than  to  have  numbers  round  him  and  hear  cheerful  voices 
in  his  rooms,  found  himself  longing  for  those  absent  ones,  and 
feeling  quite  down-hearted  because  he  had  been  hearing  that 
Mary,  who  was  at  the  sea-side  with  Constance  on  account  of 
the  latter's  ill-health,  had  written  to  say  she  thought  they  had 
better  remain  at  Firsby  some  weeks  longer.  And  where  was 
Percy,  too  ?  Isabel,  who  on  this  day,  as  on  so  many  preceding 
ones,  had  felt  sure  each  post  must  bring  something  from  him, 
had  again  been  doomed  to  disappointment.  Her  grave  face,  as 
she  sat  a  little  apart  from  the  others  silently  occupied  with  a 
book,  did  not  tend  to  make  her  father  feel  more  cheerful.  But 
who  ever  knew  Dr  Tennent  give  way  to  melancholy  1 

*  Now,  then,  how  quiet  everybody  is  to-night,'  he  said,  throw- 
ing away  his  newspaper.  '  I  don't  come  home  to  sit  moping  in 
this  way.     Susan,  can't  you  give  us  some  music  T 

*  Yes,  papa,  in  three  minutes ;  but  I  'm  so  busy  just  now.'  She 
was  arranging  a  wreath  to  be  worn  at  a  dance  the  following 


328  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

evening.     *  Don't  you  think  that  will  do,  Nelly  1     It  looks  ten 
times  better  than  it  did.' 

*  It 's  lovely y'  said  Elinor,  with  a  laugh.  '  I  think  I  shall  be 
wishing  my  dancing-days  were  back  again  that  I  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  wearing  such  things.  As  they  are  not,  however,  I 
can  play  till  you  are  ready.     What  will  you  have  to-night,  papa  V 

She  walked  to  the  piano  and  was  looking  out  her  music,  when 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell. 

'  Ah !  somebody  sending  for  me,  of  course,'  said  the  doctor. 
*  It's  always  the  way  when  I  think  I  'm  going  to  be  comfortable 
for  an  hour.  When  will  people  learn  to  be  taken  ill  at  convenient 
times  1  Now,  then,  Sarah,'  as  the  door  opened,  '  who  is  it  1  Mrs 
Briggs,  I  '11  be  bound.     Tiresome  woman  ! ' 

Mrs  Briggs  was  an  especial  favourite  among  the  doctor's 
numerous  protegees,  and  Elinor  laughed  as  she  turned  to  the 
door.  But  it  was  not  the  servant  who  was  coming  in.  Instead 
there  was  a  tall,  dark  figure  standing  there ;  and  as  she  caught 
sight  of  it,  the  music  fell  from  her  hand.  It  was  flung  away, 
indeed,  and  she  started  forward. 

'Percy!' 

Yes,  it  was  Percy  who  stood  there.  Percy — aged  and  care- 
worn, indeed,  and  bronzed  with  travel  and  exposure  to  the  burning 
suns  of  Africa ;  but  it  was  Percy  still — come  back  once  more  after 
long  wanderings  to  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  to  the  home  which 
he  had  last  left  on  his  wedding-day,  more  than  six  years  and  a 
half  ago.  And,  with  that  hurried  exclamation,  Elinor  sprang  to 
meet  him.  All  that  had  once  for  a  time  caused  a  coldness 
between  them  had  long  since  been  forgiven  and  forgotten,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  mar  her  happiness  in  seeing  him  again. 
With  a  cry  of  joy  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms;  and  her 
sudden  movement  made  every  one  in  the  room  start  up. 

*  Why,  Percy  !  how  extraordinary  !'  Mrs  Tennent  never  liked 
surprises,  and  whether  she  were  quite  pleased  now,  was  uncertain  ; 
but  about  anybody  else  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Isabel  alone 
stood  aloof.  She  had  started  up  with  the  others,  but  there  she 
had  paused,  doubting  what  her  reception  might  be ;  and  with 
face  crimson  with  agitation  and  eyes  filled  with  tears,  she  stood 
waiting  until  that  first  burst  of  greetings  was  over ;  chilled  by 
the  recollection  of  their  last  miserable  parting,  and  the  thought 
that,  during  all  the  long  years  which  had  since  passed,  no  word 
of  explanation,  of  excuse  on  her  part,  had  been  offered ;  not  one 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES.  329 

kindly  message  had  ever  passed  between  them.  Her  feeling  had 
always  been  that  she  had  sinned  too  deeply  to  be  forgiven,  and 
there  had  been  no  advance  on  his  side  to  encourage  her  to  seek 
the  pardon  for  which  she  was  yearning.  Coldly  he  had  parted 
from  her  six  years  before,  and  coldly  she  knew  he  had  thought 
of  her  ever  since.  His  love  for  her  was  gone,  and  only  hers  for 
him  remained — hers,  deep,  absorbing  as  it  had  ever  been.  What 
she  would  liave  given  then  to  be  in  her  sisters'  place,  none  could 
tell.  Neither  of  them  cared  for  him  as  she  did ;  but  they  could 
meet  him  in  undisguised  delight,  while  she  must  stand  apart. 
Those  first  moments  of  his  return,  great  as  was  the  happiness 
they  brought,  had,  perhaps,  as  much  of  bitterness  mingled  with 
them  as  any  she  had  ever  spent. 

But  that  noisy  burst  of  greetings  was  over,  and  then  came  the 
moment  she  had  most  dreaded ;  for  Susan,  observing  she  had  not 
moved,  exclaimed — 

*  Why,  Isabel,  you  haven't  said  a  word  all  this  time  !  How 
odd  of  you  !     What  are  you  doing  there  V 

She  was  obliged  to  come  forward  then,  and  with  heightened 
colour  advanced  to  meet  her  brother.  He  kissed  her — he  could 
not  w^ell  do  otherwise ;  but  the  kiss  was  cold  and  chilling,  and 
he  did  not  speak.  Perhaps  he  expected  some  words  of  welcome 
from  her  ;  but  if  so,  he  was  mistaken;  for  none  came.  The  colour 
faded  from  her  face,  and  she  drew  back,  cold  and  impassible  as 
himself.  But  there  was  no  one  to  notice  her — her  sisters  talked 
too  much  to  observe  her  extreme  quietness ;  and  Percy,  when  he 
had  explained  how,  after  an  unusually  long  passage  in  consequence 
of  contrary  winds,  they  had  only  landed  that  morning ;  and  how, 
leaving  his  luggage  to  be  passed  at  the  Custom-house,  he  had 
come  on  at  once,  knowing  he  could  reach  home  before  any  letter 
could  get  there — when  he  had  told  all  this,  he  relapsed  into 
silence ;  and  as  his  eye  went  round  the  old  familiar  room,  Isabel 
remembered  for  the  first  time  the  pain  that  return  home  must 
be  to  him.  How  could  there  indeed  be  anything  but  painful 
associations  connected  with  the  place  where  he  had  wooed  and 
won  his  bride,  and  which  he  had  never  visited  since  he  left  it 
with  her  1  There  could  be  little  there  that  did  not  remind  him 
of  her ;  and  she  saw  his  look  now  rest  on  each  well-known  ob- 
ject, and  linger  longest  on  the  spot  where  Lisa  had  often  sat, 
and  which  she  had  been  used  to  call  her  *  favourite  corner.' 
She  had  sat  there  on  the  evening  when  her  engagement  had 


330  ATHEKSTONE  PRIOKY. 

first  been  made  known,  as  Isabel  well  remembered;  and  she 
wondered  whether  her  brother  remembered  it  too — whether  he 
remembered  all  that  had  passed  that  evening.  He  turned  away 
abruptly. 

'  Where  is  May  V  he  asked.     *  Not  in  bed,  is  she  V 

*  I  hope  so/  said  Elinor,  smiling.  '  You  don't  think  we  keep 
her  up  so  late  as  this.  But  I  '11  go  and  fetch  her.  It  won't 
hurt  her  once  in  a  way  to  lose  her  sleep.' 

*  Nonsense,  Elinor,'  said  Mrs  Tennent.  *  If  Percy  wants  to 
see  her,  let  him  go  and  look  at  her  as  she  is.  Pray  don't  be 
waking  her  up;  we  sha'n't  have  her  asleep  again  to-night  if 
you  do.' 

Percy  was  a  little  disappointed.  He  wanted  something  more 
than  to  see  his  child ;  he  was  longing  to  speak  to  her,  to  have 
her  in  his  arms.  But  perhaps  the  wish  was  unreasonable ;  at 
any  rate,  after  waiting  so  long,  he  might  wait  a  few  hours  longer; 
and  smothering  his  disappointment,  he  acquiesced  in  Mrs  Ten- 
nent's  decision. 

'  Yes,  never  mind ;  don't  wake  her,*  he  said.  *  I  *11  go  up-stairs. 
Which  room  is  she  in?' 

And  followed  by  Elinor — for  Isabel  did  not  move — he  strode 
away  up-stairs,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  standing  at  May's 
bedside. 

She  lay  in  a  sleep  so  profound  that  there  was  no  fear  of  dis- 
turbing her ;  her  dear  Lady  Flora  clasped  in  her  arms,  and  her 
face  half  buried  in  the  bundle  of  rags  of  which  that  aristocratic 
doll  chiefly  consisted.  Elinor  smiled  as  she  partly  disengaged 
the  precious  treasure  from  her  embrace,  and  pushed  back  some 
of  the  prettily  disordered  hair,  that  her  brother  might  see  the 
sweet  little  face  resting  on  its  pillow,  and  looking  so  lovely  in 
the  calm  slumbers  of  childhood.  Little  did  May  guess  who  was 
standing  over  her,  watching  her  as  he  had  often  watched  her  in 
her  unconscious  babyhood,  and  tracing  once  more  in  her  young 
features  the  likeness  to  her  lost  mother.  He  did  not  speak  at 
first,  but  there  was  a  long,  long  kiss ;  and  then  he  knelt  by  her 
side  and  gazed  at  her  as  if  he  could  never  gaze  enough.  For 
now  there  was  something  for  him  to  love  again,  and  with  no 
wide  seas  rolling  between  them.  No  more  waking  morning 
after  morning  with  the  thought  that  his  child  was  far  away; 
the  wishes,  the  prayers  of  years  had  been  granted,  and  once 
again  they  were  together,  never  more  to  be  separated.     She 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES,  331 

Koxild  make  up  to  him  for  all  he  had  lost ;  she  would  love  him 
as  he  loved  her ;  and  she  would  henceforth  be  the  treasure — the 
delight  of  his  life. 

*  My  little  May  !  My  precious  child ! '  he  murmured.  '  Thank 
God  you  have  been  kept  for  me  !' 

And  there  was  another  kiss — so  long,  so  passionate,  that  sound 
as  May's  slumber  was,  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  disturb  it.  But 
it  was  only  for  a  moment ;  and  rendered  more  cautious  then,  he 
knelt  on  in  silence,  looking  at  her  with  a  long,  earnest  gaze, 
which  told  of  the  fullest,  most  intense  affection — affection  so 
full  that  it  seemed  hard  to  keep  it  to  himself — he  was  longing 
to  have  it  returned,  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  feel  her 
arms  round  him. 

'  She  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,  Elinor,'  he  said.  *  You 
don't  know  how  I  have  wanted  her  all  these  years.  And  now 
really  to  have  seen  her  again  !  It  seems  more  than  I  can  believe. 
She  will  be  the  great  happiness  of  my  life.' 

'  Yes,  I  am  sure  she  will.  But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  we  shall 
have  to  give  her  up,'  Elinor  said,  with  rather  an  unsteady  voice. 
*  There  is  no  one  here  who  likes  to  think  of  that.  She  is  every- 
body's pet,  and  I  don't  know  who  will  miss  her  most ;  unless,  in- 
deed, it  is  Isabel.  It  will  almost  break  her  heart,  I  believe,  when 
she  goes.' 

Isabel!' 

'Yes,  Isabel.  We  all  spoil  May,  I  am  afraid,'  trying  to  smile. 
'  But  Isabel  is  worse  than  any  of  us.  And  May  is  so  fond  of 
her.' 

Percy  made  no  answer,  but  once  more  he  stooped  over  his 
little  girl  to  take  another  long  lingering  look  at  her ;  and  then 
they  went  away.  They  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  which  was  not  long,  he  was  al- 
most as  silent  as  Isabel  herself.  He  made  his  long  journey  that 
day  an  excuse  for  getting  away  early  to  his  own  room ;  somewhat 
to  the  disappointment  of  Elinor  and  Susan,  who  had  so  much  to 
talk  about  that  they  would  have  had  no  objection  to  sitting  up 
half  the  night.  But  when  he  was  gone  there  was  no  inducement 
for  any  one  to  remain  any  longer,  and,  one  by  one,  *  good-nights ' 
were  exchanged,  and  everybody  disappeared  up-stairs — Mrs  Ten- 
nent  lingering,  as  usual,  to  the  last  to  see  that  everything  was 
safe  and  in  its  proper  place. 

'  He  is  dreadfully  out  of  spirits,'  the  doctor  remarked  as  he  was 


332  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

lighting  his  candle.  *  I  hope  it  only  is  as  he  says,  that  he  is  tired 
with  his  journey  ;  but  I  don't  know.  It  must  be  a  great  trial  to 
him  coming  back  here ;  and  I  'm  afraid  he  has  never  got  over 
that  poor  child's  death  yet/ 

<  What !  Not  Lisa's  1  Impossible  ! '  Mrs  Tennent  looked  so 
disdainful  at  the  bare  suggestion  that  her  husband  thought  he 
had  made  a  very  foolish  speech.  *  Why,  it 's  six  years  since, 
isn't  it?  The  idea  of  any  man  in  his  senses  making  himself 
miserable  all  that  time.  What  could  put  such  an  idea  into  your 
head,  doctor  T 

*  I  don't  know ;  and  I  hope  it  isn't  so.  It  is  a  long  time,  as 
you  say ;  but  still — he  certainly  was  very  much  attached  to  her. 
I  don't  think  you  know  what  she  was  to  him.  And  he 's  not  one 
to  forget  soon — he  never  was.' 

*  He 's  very  different  from  all  the  rest  of  the  men,  then,'  re- 
turned Mrs  Tennent.  '  You  forget  fast  enough  as  a  general 
thing.  Not  that  I  mean  to  blame  you  for  it,'  she  added;  re- 
membering, perhaps,  that  she  was  a  second  wife.  *  People  were 
not  meant  to  make  themselves  unhappy  for  ever ;  but  there  's  a 
proper  medium  in  everything.  As  for  Percy  not  having  got  over 
that,  I  don't  believe  it.  He  '11  be  marrying  again  soon ;  and  quite 
right  too.  He  ought  to  do  so  for  May's  sake ;  she  will  want 
some  one  to  look  after  her  when  he  takes  her  away  from  here.' 

*  Well,  my  dear,  as  far  as  that  goes,  I  suppose  Mary  will  do 
that.  We  must  make  up  our  minds  now  to  lose  her  whenever 
May  goes.     She  has  quite  settled,  you  know,  to  live  with  him.' 

*  Till  he  marries,'  said  Mrs  Tennent  with  emphasis.  '  She  may 
go  for  the  present,  but  she  will  be  back  again  before  many  months 
are  over ;  you  see  if  she  isn't.  And  now,  when  do  you  mean  to 
finish  lighting  that  candle?     I  am  going  to  put  the  lamp  out.' 

And  Mrs  Tennent  plunged  the  drawing-room  into  obscurity, 
and  then  proceeded  to  make  her  nightly  tour  of  inspection  round 
the  house,  while  the  doctor  slowly  walked  away  up- stairs. 


MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE.      ^  333 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 

MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE. 

Percy  left  his  room  early  the  next  morning.  Childish  steps 
passing  his  door,  and  a  childish  voice  and  a  merry  laugh  under 
his  window,  had  been  the  first  sounds  that  greeted  him  on  wak- 
ing ;  and  he  had  lost  no  time  in  dressing  and  hurrying  out,  that 
he  might  find  his  little  girl  and  make  acquaintance  with  her  at 
once.  The  breakfast-room  was  empty  when  he  went  in,  but 
Elinor  was  outside  the  open  window  tying  up  a  rose-tree,  and  he 
joined  her ;  his  first  question  being  for  May. 

'  She  was  here  a  short  time  ago,'  was  the  answer,  *  but  I  don't 
know  where  she  is  gone  now.  I  wanted  her  to  come  with  me  and 
knock  at  your  door,  but  she  was  frightened  and  ran  away.  I 
suppose  she  went  back  to  the  nurser}^' 

But  no  :  Prince's  bark  was  heard  just  then  not  very  far  off; 
and,  turning,  Elinor  caught  sight  of  the  flutter  of  a  little  frock 
among  the  trees  in  the  green  walk.  May  was  there  then — amus- 
ing herself  in  some,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  not  forbidden  way  ;  and 
with  a  few  misgivings  as  to  what  the  nature  of  her  employment 
might  be,  Elinor  walked  down  with  her  brother  to  the  place 
where  she  had  seen  the  child,  calling  to  her  at  the  same  time. 
But  May,  either  having  doubts  whether  mud-pie  making  had  left 
her  in  a  presentable  state,  or  else  being  seized  with  a  fit  of  shy- 
ness, did  not  respond  to  the  summons,  vanishing  suddenly  instead 
behind  some  tall  shrubs.  Unfortunately  for  her,  however,  her 
aunt  knew  her  haunts,  and  intercepted  her  retreat,  just  as  she 
was  whisking  off  to  the  house.  Before  she  knew  what  was  hap- 
pening to  her,  she  found  herself  caught  up  by  her  father,  fast 
clasped  in  his  arms,  and  covered  with  kisses. 

Poor  Percy !  how  his  face  lighted  up  at  that  moment,  and  how 
happy  he  looked  now  that  he  once  more  had  his  child — his  Lisa's 
child  in  his  arms.  For  years  he  had  been  thinking  of  that  time, 
and  picturing  to  himself  what  it  would  be.  In  long  hours  of  loneli- 
ness and  sadness,  the  thought  of  her  had  been  with  him  to  cheer 
his  solitude  and  his  sorrow.  And  now  that  time  was  come.  It 
had  seemed  but  half  a  meeting  the  night  before,  but  it  was  all  he 
had  ever  hoped  for  now.    Lisa's  little  child  was  in  his  arms,  and  he 


334  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

had  seen  her  eyes,  soft  and  bright  like  her  mother's,  raised  to  his 
face  with  the  wistful  look  he  knew  so  well  and  had  missed  so  long. 
But  great  happiness  seldom  comes  without  alloy ;  and  so  Percy 
found  it  now.  He  had  thought  so  much  of  his  child,  and  all 
home  letters  had  been  so  entirely  filled  with  her,  that  long  as  it 
was  since  he  had  left  her,  she  was  no  stranger  to  him  ;  and  he 
had  forgotten  that  he  might,  or  rather  must,  be  one  to  her.  It 
was  with  a  feeling  of  the  keenest  disappointment  that  he  saw  her 
turn  from  him,  and  hide  her  face  j  which  at  first  no  persuasions 
could  induce  her  to  raise  again. 

*  Why,  May,  my  little  child,  won't  you  look  at  me  ? '  he  said. 
'  Don't  you  know  who  I  am,  my  Queen  Mab — my  little  queen 
of  the  fairies  1 ' 

But  although  she  raised  her  head  for  a  moment  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  and  on  hearing  the  names  which  he  had  often  given 
her  in  his  letters,  she  dropped  it  again  when  she  caught  sight  of 
his  face.  That  plain  dark  man  who  looked  so  worn  and  sad  was 
not  at  all  the  father  she  had  pictured  to  herself,  and  it  was  very 
clear  she  was  afraid  of  him.  ISTo  entreaties  could  induce  her  to 
speak  to  or  even  look  at  him  again ;  and  Elinor,  who  saw  the 
large  tears  in  her  eyes,  persuaded  her  brother,  much  against  his 
will,  to  set  her  down. 

'  She  is  always  shy,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  You  must  not 
mind  it ;  she  will  know  you  better  by  and  by.  Leave  her  to  me 
a  little  now.' 

And  May,  released,  gladly  took  refuge  with  her  aunt,  to  whose 
hand  she  clung  in  evident  relief ;  keeping  close  beside  her,  and 
putting  as  great  a  distance  as  possible  between  herself  and  the 
tall  grave-looking  man,  on  whom — now  that  she  was  away  from 
him — she  turned  her  eyes  at  times,  with  a  gaze  half  of  fear,  half 
of  curiosity  ;  though  she  showed  no  inclination  to  increase  their 
friendly  relations.  '  He  could  not  win  a  word  or  a  smile  from 
her ;  and  when  they  returned  to  the  house  to  breakfast,  and  she 
discovered  that  the  high  chair  in  which  she  always  sat  had  been 
placed  next  the  seat  which  he  was  about  to  occupy,  she  pulled  it 
hastily  away,  pushing  it  instead  into  a  vacant  space  between  her 
grandfather  and  Isabel. 

Dr  Tennent  laughed  as  he  noticed  the  movement. 

*  Why,  pet,  this  isn't  your  proper  place,'  he  said.  ^  What  are 
you  doing  here  1  Don't  you  want  to  sit  next  papa  ? '  patting 
her  head  as  he  spoke. 


MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE.  335 

Pet  grew  crimson,  and  looked  very  shy.     ^  No,  thank  you.' 

*  No,  thank  you  !     Why,  what 's  that  for,  my  little  girl  ?  ' 

'  I  'd  rather  not,'  and  she  took  a  draught  of  milk  from  her  tiny 
cup,  looking  over  the  top  of  it  at  Mrs  Tennent,  who  shook  her 
head  at  her. 

*  Now  May,  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  be  shy  and  silly.  I 
shall  be  very  angry  if  you  are.  I  don't  know  what  you  will  do 
with  her,'  turning  to  Percy.  '  Mary  has  spoilt  her,  I  believe  ;  and 
I  am  sure  every  one  else  has.    You  will  find  her  very  troublesome.' 

But  Percy,  though  truth  to  say  he  was  hurt  and  disappointed 
at  his  child's  coldness  and  evident  aversion  to  him,  only  smiled. 

'  Never  mind,'  he  said.  *  We  shall  get  on  well  together  by 
and  by,  I  have  no  doubt.  She  does  not  know  me  yet ;  but  we 
shall  be  good  friends  soon.' 

And  at  the  sound  of  the  kind  voice.  May  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment  as  if  the  process  of  making  friends  might  not  be  such  a 
long  one  after  all ;  but  unfortunately  while  speaking  he  put  up 
his  glass  to  see  her  better,  and  the  sight  of  that  seemed  at  once  to 
renew  all  her  apprehensions.  She  shrank  away  and  hid  her  face 
on  Isabel's  shoulder. 

Mrs  Tennent  was  very  angry.  *  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  May — 
you  are  a  naughty  child ;  and  if  you  don't  sit  up  at  once  and  eat 
your  breakfast  properly,  I  shall  lock  you  in  my  closet  for  the  rest  of 
the  morning.     I  am  not  going  to  let  you  behave  in  that  rude  way.' 

'  Sit  up,  my  precious,'  whispered  Isabel.  *  You  mustn't  be 
silly  ;  you  are  not  afraid,  are  you  1 ' 

^  Yes,  I  am.  I  '11  go  into  the  closet,  please,  I  won't  mind  it,' 
said  poor  May,  who  had  a  horror  in  general  of  that  place  of  pun- 
ishment, but  seemed  to  consider  it  now  far  preferable  to  remain- 
ing in  the  room  with  her  strange,  grave-looking  father.  Some 
little  whispering,  however,  which  took  place  between  her  and  her 
aunt,  had  the  effect  of  restoring  her  equanimity,  and  she  sat 
up  then  and  went  on  with  her  breakfast,  only  casting  furtive 
glances  from  time  to  time  across  the  table  ;  while  Percy,  dis- 
liking to  hear  her  found  fault  with  on  his  account,  and  thinking 
she  was  more  likely  to  come  round  if  left  to  herself,  said  no 
more,  and  took  care  that  no  notice  should  be  taken  of  her 
by  the  others.  But  it  was  with  a  sigh  that,  when  breakfast  was 
over,  he  saw  her  slip  down  from  her  chair,  and  evidently  fear- 
ing to  be  detained  by  him,  make  her  escape  from  the  room.  He 
saw  her  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  morning  running 


336  ATHERSTOXE  PKIOKY. 

about  the  garden,  and  heard  her  merry  laughter  and  her  little 
voice  carolling  as  gaily  as  that  of  some  bird ;  but  it  was  useless 
to  seek  her  out — -he  would  but  have  stopped  that  laughter  and 
merriment.  He  could  only  sit  and  watch  her  unperceived,  feel- 
ing how  different  this  return  was  from  all  he  had  ever  looked  for, 
and  contrasting  sadly  these  first  hours  at  home  with  his  last 
spent  there  years  ago. 

*  It  is  a  pity  she  is  so  shy  with  you/  said  Elinor  ;  '  she  has 
always  talked  so  much  of  you,  that  I  hoped  she  would  be  soci- 
able at  once.     But  you  won't  have  very  long  to  wait,  I  daresay.* 

The  waiting,  however,  w^as  longer  than  she  expected.  May 
had  no  fancy  for  him,  and  did  not  care  to  shov/  a  preference 
where  none  existed. 

'  I  don't  like  him  a  bit,'  she  said  to  Lane ;  *  I  wish  he 
wasn't  my  papa — oh,  I  do  wdsh  it !  and  I  wish  he  had  never 
come  home.  He  isn't  like  anybody  here,  and  he 's  so  old 
and  so  ugly ;  I  don't  love  him  at  all !  I  wish  he  would  go 
away  to-morrow — go  quite  away,  and  never  come  back  any 
more.'  And  catching  sight  of  him  in  the  distance,  just  as  she 
had  delivered  herself  of  these  sentiments,  she  flew  away  and  hid 
herself  in  some  out-of-the-way  corner,  till  she  was  quite  sure 
that  all  danger  of  meeting  him  was  over. 

And  this  went  on  for  some  time :  all  attempts  to  come  to  a 
better  understanding  with  her  being  a  failure,  in  spite  of  the 
repeated  scoldings  she  received  from  Mrs  Tennent,  till  Percy, 
not  liking  to  hear  his  little  girl  so  often  found  fault  with,  begged 
rather  peremptorily  she  might  be  left  to  herself.  He  had  no 
wish  to  force  her  to  anything  against  her  inclination,  and  had 
no  doubt  she  would  come  round  by  and  by. 

And  he  was  right.  A  few  mornings  later  he  asked  her  if  she 
would  not  go  for  a  walk  with  him — a  request  which  she  declined 
in  the  most  steadfast  manner.  He  said  no  more,  but  something 
in  his  face  as  he  turned  away — something  of  sadness,  per- 
haps, at  being  so  slighted  by  his  child — seemed  to  strike  her,  and 
while  walking  up  and  down  the  room  afterwards  with  her  old 
rag  doll.  Lady  Flora,  in  her  arms,  she  paused  several  times  near 
the  open  window  to  watch  him  on  a  garden  bench  close  by, 
where  he  had  seated  himself  on  her  refusal.  Her  thoughts  wxre 
evidently  engrossed  with  him,  though  he  did  not  notice  her ; 
and  so  absorbed  was  she  in  the  observations  she  was  making, 
that  her  plaything  fell  to  the  ground  unheeded,  and,  stealing  up 


MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE.  337 

to  the  window,  she  was  looking  at  liim  with  intent,  earnest  eyes, 
when  Mrs  Tennent  came  into  the  room.  Her  entrance  was 
unfortunate,  for,  passing  the  doll  that  lay  on  the  floor,  its 
appearance  there  caused  her  no  little  displeasure.  She  had  often 
lectured  poor  May  on  her  untidiness,  and  threatened  to  make 
away  with  any  rubbish  she  might  leave  about ;  and  angry  now 
at  the  sight  of  the  offending  favourite,  she  picked  it  up,  and, 
ringing  the  bell,  ordered  the  servant  who  came  in  to  put  it  at  the 
back  of  the  kitchen  Are.  It  was  nothing  better,  it  was  true,  than 
a  bundle  of  rags,  but  it  was  May's  treasure — the  doll  she  loved 
best  out  of  half-a-dozen  more  she  had,  and  her  despair  upon  hear- 
ing the  order  for  this  summary  disposal  of  her  property  was  great 
in  the  extreme.  In  an  agony  she  flew  to  the  rescue,  but  it  was 
too  late.  Mrs  Tennent  kept  her  off" ;  and  although  the  servant 
hesitated  at  first,  appearing  very  reluctant  to  obey  the  command, 
a  look  from  her  mistress  told  her  it  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
She  departed,  and  as  May  saw  the  door  close  upon  her  she  gave 
way  to  a  storm  of  passion  beyond  all  control.  She  was  like  a 
little  fury,  stamping  the  ground,  and  being  utterly  beside  her- 
self with  rage.  *  Thtupid  old  thing '  (she  always  lisped  when  in 
a  hurry  or  excited),  '  wicked,'  *  unkind,'  '  cruel,'  were  the  mildest 
of  the  childish  invectives  with  which  she  loaded  her  grand- 
mother, greatly  to  the  dismay  of  Isabel,  who  was  sitting  by. 

*  Hush,  May,  dear  ;  don't  talk  in  that  way  !  You  don*t  know 
what  you  are  saying,'  she  remonstrated  ;  but  she  might  as  well 
have  spoken  to  the  wind.  May's  fury  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
quenched  ;  and  Mrs  Tennent's  anger  was  roused  by  her  audacity. 

'  May,  you  very  naughty  child,  have  you  the  least  idea  whom 
you  are  talking  to  1 '  she  exclaimed.  *  A  little  girl  like  you  to 
speak  in  that  way  1  You  shall  be  well  whipped  for  your  im- 
pertinence.' 

A  sentence  which  brought  May  to  herself ;  her  passion  sub- 
siding suddenly.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  her  grandmother, 
quailed  by  her  air  of  displeasure  ;  and  then  she  fled — to  the  door 
first,  but  not  being  able  to  open  that  fast  enough  with  her  small 
hands,  she  turned,  and  struck  by  a  fresh  thought,  took  refuge 
by  the  side  of  her  father,  whom  her  burst  of  anger  had  brought 
to  the  window. 

'  Papa,'  in  a  voice  of  frantic  entreaty — ^  please,  papa,  keep  me 
— don't  let  her  take  me  ! '  And  she  clung  to  him  imploringly  as 
Mrs  Tennent  advanced  across  the  room. 

Y 


338  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Percy  stooped  down  and  raised  her  in  his  arms. 

*  Excuse  me,  madam  :  I  don't  know  what  the  child  has  done, 
but  whatever  it  is,  she  is  not  to  be  punished  for  it ;  I  shall  not 
allow  it.' 

Mrs  Tennent  stood  aghast.  *  What,  not  after  such  impertin- 
ence !  Do  you  mean  a  child  like  her  is  to  say  what  she  likes, 
and  you  are  going  to  encourage  her  in  it  ?  I  never  saw  any  one 
in  such  a  passion  in  my  life,  or  heard  such  rudeness.  If  you  let 
her  think  she  is  to  act  in  such  a  way  without  being  punished  for 
it,  you  are  extremely  wrong.' 

But  Percy  only  drew  his  little  girl  close  to  him.  Right  or 
wrong,  she  had  thrown  herself  on  his  protection  :  and  with  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  as  they  were  now,  he  was  not  going  to  give 
her  up. 

'  I  can't  help  it,'  he  said.  *  If  she  has  been  rude,  she  will  be 
sorry  for  it  by  and  by,  I  am  sure.  But  I  can't  let  her  be 
punished.' 

Mrs  Tennent  was  very  angry.  *  If  that  is  the  plan  you  mean 
to  pursue  with  her,  the  sooner  you  take  her  from  here  the  better. 
I  shall  not  submit  to  be  insulted  in  my  own  house.' 

She  left  the  room  in  high  displeasure ;  May's  first  feeling  on 
her  departure  being  one  of  exultation ;  but  when  she  came  to 
reflect  afterwards  upon  the  loss  of  her  treasure,  and  still  more 
when  Elinor,  who  came  into  the  room,  was  told  of  what  had 
passed,  her  face  changed.  Both  her  aunts  looked  so  very  grave 
that  her  conscience  began  to  work,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

*  Don't  cry,  my  little  girl,'  Percy  said.  *  No  one  is  going  to 
be  angry  with  you.  I  won't  have  her  scolded,  Elinor  j  she  had 
a  great  deal  to  provoke  her,  poor  child  ! ' 

*  I  don't  want  to  scold,'  Elinor  answered.  *  I  am  only  thinking 
what  is  to  be  done.  Mamma  is  very  angry,  and  not  without 
reason,  I  think.  I  am  afraid  May  really  was  rude,'  looking  at 
her  sister  as  she  spoke. 

^  I  am  afraid  she  was,'  Isabel  was  beginning  rather  unwillingly ; 
but  she  was  cut  short  by  Percy's  remarking  rather  bitterly,  '  She 
is  sure  to  have  been  in  the  wrong  if  you  ask  Isabel  about  it ; ' 
the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  bringing  the  colour  to  her  face,  and 
she  was  silent,  while  May's  tears  redoubled. 

*  I  was  naughty.  Aunt  Isabel  is  right,'  she  exclaimed.  *  But 
oh,  my  poor  Lady  Flora  is  all  burnt !     I  'm  so  sorry  1 ' 

And  there  came  another  childish  burst  of  grief,  which  Percy 


MAKING  ACQUAINTANCE.  339 

in  vain  endeavoured  to  calm,  though  whether  it  were  caused  by 
the  recollection  of  her  own  passion,  or  by  her  loss,  was  not 
easy  to  discover.  Penitence,  however,  seemed  really  to  be  at  the 
bottom  of  it ;  for  when  Elinor  had  taken  her  in  hand  a  little, 
and  under  her  auspices  the  tears  at  length  ceased  to  flow,  she 
was  heard  suggesting  that  perhaps  she  had  better  go  and  tell  her 
grandmamma  she  was  sorry  she  had  been  so  rude — she  really  was 
sorry  now ;  a  proposition  of  which  her  aunts  at  once  approved, 
and  to  which  Percy  offered  no  objection ;  though,  as  he  said,  he 
considered  she  had  had  so  much  provocation  that  he  did  not 
wonder  she  had  been  angry. 

*  But  I  won't  have  her  punished,'  he  added  peremptorily. 
*  The  idea  of  such  a  thing ! '  growing  quite  angry  as  he  spoke. 

So  May,  escorted  by  Elinor,  went  off  to  make  her  peace  with 
Mrs  Tennent;  not  an  easy  matter,  for  that  lady  was  most 
seriously  displeased ;  and  it  was  only  the  knowledge  of  her  utter 
powerlessness  to  act  any  further  in  the  affair  which  induced  her 
at  length  to  listen  to  May's  childish  expressions  of  penitence, 
while  she  wound  up  a  long  lecture  which  she  bestowed  on  the 
culprit  with  the  assurance  that  it  was  the  first  and  last  time  she 
would  pass  over  such  a  thing,  and  that  if  it  were  ever  repeated, 
she  would  most  assuredly  punish  her  severely. 

*  Papa  won't  let  you,'  was  the  triumphant  rejoinder,  which, 
however,  was  immediately  checked  by  her  aunt,  while  Mrs  Ten- 
nent prudently  forbore  to  notice  the  remark — and  May,  released 
from  her  presence,  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  to  scramble 
upon  her  father's  knee  and  cram  his  mouth  with  barley-sugar; 
while  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  that  she  would  love  him  now — 
she  would  love  him  very  much,  and  never  be  afraid  of  him  any 
more ;  a  compact  which  she  sealed  with  the  first  kiss  she  had 
ever  given  him. 


340  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTER  XLYIIL 

*WILL   YE   THINK   OF   HER   WHO   DIED  T 

And  from  that  dtay  Percy's  life  began  to  change.  The  void  left 
within  him  by  Lisa's  death,  and  which  the  lapse  of  long  years 
had  failed  to  fill  up,  disappeared  by  slow  degrees.  With  the 
new  interests  awakened  in  him  by  his  child,  he  ceased  to  feel  his 
loneliness ;  and  his  sadness  was  chased  away  by  her  mirth.  It 
would  have  been  a  shame,  he  said  to  himself,  to  let  even  the 
shadow  of  grief  intrude  upon  her  joyousness ;  and  in  the  wish  to 
meet  her  in  her  lightheartedness  he  forgot  his  own  heavy  sorrow. 
And  when  she  found  he  could  sympathise  with  all  her  childish 
feelings,  and  enter  into  all  her  amusements ;  that  he  would  give 
up  anything  at  any  time,  no  matter  what  he  was  doing  or  where 
he  was  going,  to  please  her — she  was  not  slow  in  taking  advantage 
of  the  discovery,  and  seldom  left  him  long  alone ;  while  she  soon 
learned  to  wonder  how  it  was  she  had  ever  been  afraid  of  him. 

'  He  was  so  kind,'  she  was  heard  declaring.  *  He  was  better  a 
great  deal  than  any  papa  she  had  ever  dreamed  of;  she  hoped 
he  would  never  go  away  again ;  she  should  be  so  sorry,  so  unhappy 
if  he  did,'  with  a  good  deal  more  in  the  same  style;  for  her 
heart  was  completely  won,  and,  like  her  mother,  her  affectiou 
when  once  awakened  knew  no  bounds.  And  if  her  great  delight 
now  was  to  be  with  her  father,  it  was  no  less  a  one  to  him  to 
have  her  wdth  him.  He  made  her  his  constant  companion  at  all 
times,  and  both  at  home  and  abroad  she  Avas  always  to  be  seen 
at  his  side ;  she  sat  beside  him  when  he  read  or  wrote,  carried 
on  all  her  amusements  as  near  him  as  possible,  and  insisted  upon 
accompanying  him  in  all  his  walks  and  rambles. 

With  him,  too,  she  renewed  her  acquaintance  with  'Mr 
Arthur,'  whom,  in  the  new  interests  which  had  lately  been 
engrossing  her,  she  had  almost  forgotten.  Percy  had  no  sooner 
heard  from  his  father  that  his  cousin  was  located  in  Atherstone, 
than  he  lost  no  time  in  seeking  him  out ;  and  one  day  when  he 
was  setting  off  for  a  walk  with  May,  he  told  her  he  w^as  going  to 
take  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  some  one  who  wished  very  much  to  see 
her.     Her  curiosity  was  excited  in  no  small  degree  by  this  infor- 


''  WILL  YE  THINJ^  OF  HER  WHO  DIED  ?  '  341 

mation,  and  her  delight  when  introduced  again  to  the  *  gentleman 
with  the  kind  eyes'  was  quite  as  great;  though  she  puzzled  her- 
self extremely  to  know  why  it  was  he  never  spoke  to  her  without, 
as  she  expressed  it,  looking  so  sorry.  However,  he  was  very 
kind  to  her;  quite  as  kind  as  she  was  sure  from  his  eyes  he 
would  be,  and  she  made  herself  very  happy  in  his  house  when- 
ever she  went  there.  With  Mrs  Clarke,  also,  she  became  fast 
friends ;  visiting  her  in  the  kitchen,  and  under  her  guidance 
exploring  the  house  from  top  to  bottom,  though  she  was  puzzled 
to  know  why  Mr  Arthur  only  lived  in  two  rooms,  and  what  he 
was  going  to  do  Avith  the  others.  Would  he  never  put  chairs 
and  tables  in  them,  and  would  nobody  ever  live  there?  To 
which  questions  Mrs  Clarke  only  smiled  a  little  grimly,  though 
she  once  went  so  far  as  to  admit  that  somebody  might  perhaps 
live  there  by  and  by ;  she  supposed  he  was  waiting  for  the  young 
lady  who  would  come  some  day. 

*  A  young  lady  ! '  May's  eyes  were  opened,  and  her  ears  on  the 
alert  immediately.  *  Who  was  she  ?  Where  did  she  live,  and 
what  was  her  name  ] ' 

But  of  that  Mrs  Clarke  did  not  profess  to  know  much.  Her 
name  was  Miss  Eight,  of  course;  but  where  she  lived  was  another 
thing.  Some  people  said  she  lived  in  Atherstone,  and  others 
that  she  didn't ;  for  her  own  part  she  knew  nothing  about  it. 

Miss  Right !  May  was  more  puzzled  than  before ;  and  by 
way  of  enlightening  herself,  applied  to  Arthur  on  the  subject, 
and  asked  him  to  tell  her  who  the  young  lady  was  who  was  one 
day  to  come  and  live  in  the  rest  of  the  house.  His  look  of 
astonishment  at  first,  and  then  his  hearty  laugh,  astounded  poor 
May  ;  though  he  was  grave  enough  afterwards. 

*  I  don't  know  any  Miss  Right  yet,'  he  said.  '  You  are 
the  only  young  lady  who  ever  comes  here,  so  I  think  you  must 
be  the  one  Mrs  Clarke  means.  What  do  you  say  1  Will  you 
come  and  live  with  me,  and  make  my  tea  V 

Yes.  May  thought  she  should  like  it  very  much ;  and  there 
was  a  pretty  room,  at  the  top  of  the  house,  which  looked  over 
the  little  strip  of  garden,  that  she  thought  would  do  for  her  very 
nicely ;  but  then,  she  began  to  demur.  She  should  like  it  cer- 
tainly ;  she  should  like  that  little  room ;  and  she  liked  pouring 
out  tea  when  the  tea-pot  wasn't  too  heavy,  and  she  didn't  think 
his  was  :  but  still — her  name  wasn't  Right,  to  begin  with,  and 
. — oh,  how  could  she  have  forgotten  it  ?     She  couldn't  leave  her 


342  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

dear  papa ;  what  would  he  do  without  her,  and  she  loved  him  so 
very,  very  much  that  she  couldn't  go  away  and  leave  him.  No, 
Arthur  must  make  his  own  tea,  and  the  little  room  at  the  top  of 
the  house  must  remain  empty,  for  May  couldn't  come  ;  and  she 
rushed  into  her  father  s  arms  as  she  spoke,  and  smothered  him 
with  her  kisses. 

But  May's  visits  to  St  Jude's  Rectory  came  to  an  end  after  a 
time.  A  fever  was  ravaging  some  parts  of  the  town,  and  it  was 
especially  prevalent  in  the  poor  and  crowded  districts  of  which 
Arthur's  parish  chiefly  consisted;  so  that  Dr  Tennent  advised 
his  family's  keeping  entirely  away  from  that  quarter.  May's 
pleasant  hours,  therefore,  with  Mr  Arthur  were  over  for  a  time, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  them  most  regretted  the 
separation — the  child  who  had  always  found  so  much  happiness 
in  his  house,  or  he  himself  when  he  missed  her  bright  face,  and 
felt  he  was  once  more  cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  old 
home. 

*  Will  you  come  with  me,  Queen  Mab  V  Percy  said  one  evening, 
two  or  three  weeks  later.  '  I  am  going  on  the  Copelands  road 
a  little  way ;  will  you  come  too  1 ' 

May  jumped  down  from  the  garden-seat  on  which  she  had 
been  sitting,  listening  to  the  story  which  her  Aunt  Isabel  was 
telling  her  for  about  the  five  hundredth  time,  of  *  The  Ugly 
Duckling;'  but  a  walk  with  her  father  was  a  superior  attraction, 
and  she  picked  up  her  hat,  which  was  lying  on  the  ground  beside 
her,  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his  in  great  delight. 

*  Won't  Aunt  Isabel  come  too  V  she  said  eagerly  :  ^  she  never 
comes  with  us  ;  don't  you  think  she  will  now  1 ' 

There  was  no  answer ;  Percy's  brow  clouded  :  but  May  pulled 
his  hand. 

*  Won't  she  come?'  she  repeated  wistfully. 

*  Ask  her,  if  you  like,  my  child,'  was  the  reply ;  but  the  tone 
was  freezingly  cold,  and  Isabel's  head,  which  was  bent  over  some 
work,  went  down  still  lower.  May  seemed  puzzled,  and  for  a 
moment  stood  looking  alternately  at  her  and  at  her  father.  Then 
she  ran  back  to  her  side. 

*  Will  you  come.  Aunt  Isabel  ]     Please  do,'  very  coaxingly. 

*  No,  dear,  not  to-day.'     The  words  were  hardly  audible. 

*  Won't  you?     You  are  not  busy.     Do;  please  do  come.' 
Isabel  kissed  her.     '  Not  to-day,  my  darling,'  she  said  again, 

and  May  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.     Once  more  she 


^  WILL  YE  THINK  OF  HER  WHO  DIED  ?  '  343 

looked  puzzled;  and  after  gazing  at  her  intently  for  a  few 
moments,  laid  her  head  on  her  lap. 

*  Then  I  will  stay  with  you/  she  said  decidedly.  '  I  won't  go 
either.' 

But  at  these  words  Isabel  roused  herself.  *  No,  indeed,  dear ; 
that  would  never  do  :  you  can  go  without  me.  Kun,  my  darling, 
and  don't  keep  papa  waiting ;  he  won't  like  it.'  For  Percy  had 
turned  away,  and  was  already  at  the  other  end  of  the  green  walk. 

May  looked  after  him.  Child  as  she  was,  she  saw  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  seemed  doubtful  on  which  side  her 
sympathies  were  to  lie.  But  when  her  aunt,  kissing  her  once 
more,  told  her  again  to  go,  that  she  had  something  to  do,  and 
did  not  mind  being  alone,  she  went ;  though  evidently  with  some 
reluctance,  and  she  looked  back  several  times  before  she  finally 
left  the  walk  and  joined  her  father. 

It  was  a  warm,  bright  evening,  and  they  went  into  one  of  the 
meadows  on  the  Copelands  road  and  sat  down  on  a  bank  ;  or 
rather  Percy  sat  down,  for  May  preferred  something  more  active, 
and  after  trying  in  vain  to  coax  old  Prince  into  running  a  race 
with  her,  wandered  round  the  field  in  search  of  flowers,  with 
which  she  kept  filling  her  hands,  returning  to  lay  them  in  bunches 
by  her  father's  side.  And  he  sat  and  watched  her  as  she  ran 
about  in  the  evening  sunlight,  and  his  thoughts  went  back,  as 
they  so  often  did,  to  years  gone  by ;  to  a  summer-time,  which 
seemed  now  so  far  away,  to  his  cottage-home,  with  its  w^hite 
walls  and  trailing  creepers,  on  the  shores  of  the  blue  sea,  to  days 
of  great  happiness  spent  there,  and  days  of  great  misery ;  and 
memory  returned  to  one  day  in  particular — one  bright  summer's 
day,  just  such  another  as  the  present,  when  the  little  child  now 
his  pride  and  happiness  had  first  seen  the  light.  Years  had  gone 
by  since  then — since  he  had  watched  the  fading  away  of  his 
greatest  earthly  treasure,  and  had  been  left  to  the  silence  and 
sadness  of  a  lonely  hearth.  But  although  time  had  changed  and 
softened  his  grief,  it  had  not  brought  forgetfulness ;  and  summer 
days  could  never  come  round  without  bringing  a  return  of  the 
many  painful  feelings  with  which  they  had  once  been  associated. 

May  noticed  after  a  time  that  he  was  graver  than  usual,  and 
that,  contrary  to  his  wont  when  she  was  with  him,  he  did  not 
shake  off  his  abstraction ;  and  leaving  her  flowers,  she  stole  behind 
him  and  twined  her  arms  round  his  neck  in  her  loving  way.  Ha 
understood  the  action,  and  it  brought  the  smile  she  wanted  to 


344  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

see,  though  he  did  not  speak.  For  some  minutes  the}^  were  both 
silent.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  the  western  sky,  Avhere  the  sun 
had  just  gone  down,  and  he  was  thinking  of  another  evening — 
Lisa's  last  on  earth — when  they  had  watched  together  the  sunset 
behind  the  Gainsford  hills.  May,  too,  was  gazing  intently  at 
that  western  glow,  but  there  was  no  sadness  in  her  thoughts ; 
they  were  those  of  admiration  only — admiration  mixed  with 
something  like  awe ;  for  when  her  childish  voice  at  length  broke 
the  silence,  its  usually  eager  tones  were  subdued. 

*  How  pretty  ! '  she  said,  half  in  a  whisper,  and  pointing  to  the 
sky  as  she  spoke.  *  Papa,'  after  a  long  pause,  *  do  you  think 
that  is  the  way  into  heaven  ?  Is  that  the  golden  floor  where  the 
angels  walk?' 

The  childish  question  came  strangely  at  that  moment,  and 
Percy  could  not  answer  at  first.  But  after  a  few  moments,  he 
said  quietly — 

*  No,  dearest,  that  is  not  heaven ;  it 's  only  the  sunlight. 
Heaven  is  more  beautiful  than  that.^ 

*  More  beautiful !'  May  paused,  and  looked  for  a  long  time 
at  the  glowing  sky.  *  I  should  like  to  go  there,'  she  added 
gravely,  after  a  silence  of  some  minutes  ;  and  Percy  started,  and 
involuntarily  drew  her  closer  to  him.  In  the  evening  light  she 
looked  so  pure,  so  ethereal,  that  he  could  have  fancied  her  one 
of  the  angels  of  which  she  had  just  spoken,  and  a  sudden  mis- 
giving seized  him. 

*  Why  do  you  want  to  go,  my  darling  ?  I  couldn't  spare  you. 
You  are  my  little  comfort,  you  know.' 

*  Am  1 1 '  May  smiled,  and  her  arms  were  twined  more  closely 
round  him.     *  I  like  to  be  that,  papa !     Are  you  sure  I  am  V 

*  Quite  sure,  dearest.     You  don't  want  to  leave  me,  do  you  ? ' 

*  No,'  emphatically.  *  And  I  '11  stay  with  you ;  I  won't  want 
to  go.'  And  she  kissed  him  in  her  eager  way ;  though  after  a 
time  her  eye  again  went  back  to  the  evening  sk}^,  and  she  stood 
still  looking  at  it  with  a  long,  wistful  gaze. 

*  What  is  it,  my  child  1  what  are  you  thinking  off  Percy  asked 
at  last,  hardly  liking  to  see  that  look,  and  wishing  to  bring  her 
back  to  her  usual  self.     The  answer  was  unexpected. 

*  I  was  thinking  of  mamma.     She  is  there,  isn't  sheV 
Percy's  face  grew  pale.     It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 

heard  her  mention  her  mother,  and  for  a  moment  it  was  more 
than  he  could  bear ;  he  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself  as  if  in 


^  WILL  YK  THINK  OP  HER  WHO  DIED  ?  *  345 

pain.  But  her  own  child  !  surely  she  had  a  right  to  speak  of 
her !  Had  not  Lisa  herself  asked  that  they  would  talk  of  her 
sometimes — that  she  might  not  be  forgotten?  And  the  cold, 
proud  look  of  forced  calmness  with  which  he  always  heard  from 
others  the  most  distant  allusion  to  his  lost  wife,  and  which  even 
then  had  crossed  his  countenance,  passed  away  again. 

*  Yes,  dearest,  she  is  there.  You  know  about  her  then,  May  1 ' 
he  said,  after  a  long  silence.     *  You  think  of  her  sometimes?' 

*  Yes,  very  often.  Aunt  Mary  tells  me  about  her.  Papa,  I 
wish  she  was  here  now.  I  wish  she  could  come  back  to 
us!' 

Percy  was  silent;  a  long  weary  sigh  was  his  only  answer. 
For  that  wish  was  but  an  echo  of  the  wild  though  never-uttered 
yearning  of  his  own  heart ;  but  it  sounded  strange  to  him  to  hear 
it  from  another,  even  though  that  other  were  Lisa's  child.  He 
was  silent  so  long  that  May  was  afraid  she  had  said  something 
wrong,  and  he  was  roused  presently  by  a  renewal  of  her  clinging 
caresses.     He  looked  up  then. 

*  Ah,  my  little  May,  I  was  forgetting  you,'  he  said,  rather  sadly ; 
and  after  a  pause  he  added,  with  manifest  effort,  *  You  wish  she 
were  here  again  ?  So  do  I,  dearest ;  you  little  know,  my  child, 
what  you  have  lost  in  her.'  He  drew  a  small  case  from  his 
pocket  as  he  spoke — a  case  which  might  have  held  a  miniature 
likeness,  but  there  was  nothing  of  the  sort  within  it.  When  with 
some  hesitation  he  opened  it,  there  were  only  a  few  withered 
blades  of  grass  there,  and  a  little  bit  of  silver  paper  containing 
one  long  tress  of  golden  hair.  He  had  never  had  a  likeness  of 
Lisa ;  no  photograph  would  have  pleased  him,  and  the  only 
opportunity  that  had  once  offered  for  having  a  good  oil-painting 
taken  had  been  lost  through  some  dislike  of  hers  to  sitting  so 
long.  He  had  nothing  but  the  memory  of  her  left ;  and  deeply 
he  regretted  that  it  was  so — that  no  picture  could  ever  tell  his 
child  of  the  mother  she  had  lost.  But  that  long  tress  of  hair  was 
cherished  as  a  sacred  thing. 

*  See,  May,'  he  said.     *  That  is  her  hair,  it  is  very  like  yours.' 
Yes,  so  it  was.     When  he  put  them  together,  mother's  and 

child's,  he  could  hardly  have  told  them  apart ;  both  were  of  the 
same  shade  of  pale  brown,  both  had  the  same  tinge  of  sunlight — 
the  sunlight  that  comes  from  western  skies — upon  them.  For  a 
long  time  May  looked  at  that  lock,  and  then  she  said  softly — 

*  It 's  just  like  the  hair  in  Aunt  Isabel's  picture,  isn't  it  V 


346  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

'  In  your  Aunt  Isabel's  picture  !  What  do  you  mean,  dearest  V 
he  said  absently. 

*  In  that  picture  she  has  of  mamma.  Her  hair  is  just  like 
that/  May  said,  gazing  intently  at  the  golden  tress  before  her. 

'  Your  Aunt  Isabel !  No,  dearest,  you  are  mistaken.  She 
has  no  likeness  of  your  mother,'  with  a  sigh.     *No  one  has.' 

May  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
^  Yes,'  she  has  :  I  've  seen  it.  I  saw  it  one  day,  and  she  told  me 
it  was  mamma.  She  did,  indeed ;  I  really  saw  it,'  with  great 
earnestness. 

*  Saw  it  1  where,  my  darling  1 ' 

'  In  her  room.  I  saw  it  there  one  day,  and  I  asked  her  w^ho 
it  was,  and  she  told  me.  Oh  yes,  I  know  she  has  it,'  May  per- 
sisted. *  I  saw  her  put  it  in  a  drawer  and  lock  it  up.  I  'm  sure 
it 's  quite  safe  there.' 

Percy  was  silent.  The  child  seemed  so  positive  of  the  truth 
of  her  assertion  that  he  could  hardly  doubt  it.  But  yet  how 
had  Isabel  become  possessed  of  the  likeness ;  and  why  should 
she  care  to  keep  it  ?  Lisa  had  been  nothing  to  her ;  she  had 
only  slighted  and  wronged  her  when  living,  and  why  should  she 
wish  to  retain  any  recollection  of  her  ? 

*I  think,'  May  began  again,  pursuing  her  own  train  of 
thought,  *  I  think  Aunt  Isabel  must  have  painted  it  herself ;  she 
paints  so  beautifully,  papa !  Do  you  know  her  room  is  full  of 
pictures  1     You  've  never  seen  them,  have  you  ? ' 

*  Not  lately.     I  saw  them  a  long  time  ago.' 

*  Oh,  but  she  has  a  great  many  now.  I  wish  you  would  come 
and  see  them  some  day ;  will  you  ?  And  I  '11  ask  her  to  show 
you  that  one,  shall  1 1 '  very  eagerly,  but  lowering  her  voice  to  a 
whisper. 

*  No,  dearest,  no,'  was  the  hasty  answer ;  though  he  added 
kindly,  *  I  think  it  is  some  mistake  of  yours,  my  little  girl.' 
And  then,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  he  said  gravely, 
*  I  hope  you  don't  often  go  to  your  aunt's  room ;  she  does  not 
like  to  be  interrupted ;  I  am  afraid  you  must  be  in  the  way.' 

A  suggestion  at  which  May  looked  at  first  rather  bewildered  ; 
though  her  doubts,  whatever  they  might  be,  seemed  to  arise  not 
so  much  from  the  words  themselves  as  from  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  spoken.  For  a  minute  she  gazed  at  him  in  evident 
surprise. 

'  I  don't  think  I  'm  in  the  way/  she  said,  after  some  thought. 


'  WILL  YE  THINK  OF  HER  WHO  DIED  ?  '  347 

*  No,  I  'm  sure  I  'm  not,  Aunt  Isabel  likes  me  to  go.      She  is 
always  very  kind  to  me,  you  know.' 

*  Is  she  1 '  There  was  a  world  of  doubt  and  bitter  irony  in  his 
voice  j  and  although  May  did  not  comprehend  him,  she  felt  that 
from  some  cause  he  was  displeased,  and  she  was  silent ;  her 
face  growing  so  distressed  in  its  expression  of  mute  perplexity 
that  Percy  felt  some  reproach  as  he  looked  at  her.  He  drew  her 
fondly  towards  him. 

*  We  have  sat  here  long  enough,  my  little  May  blossom,'  he 
said  with  a  smile.  *  Suppose  we  go  ;  it  is  getting  late  for  you,' 
and  he  pointed  to  the  sky  from  which  the  last  traces  of  the  sun's 
glow  were  fast  fading  away. 

May  jumped  up,  but  she  did  not  say  anything,  and  as  they 
went  home  together  along  the  dusty  road,  she  was  far  more 
silent  than  usual.  She  w^as  silent  also  when  she  met  her  aunt 
again,  watching  her  with  curious  wistful  looks  which  Isabel  was 
puzzled  to  account  for,  though  they  were  explained  later.  That 
night  when  she  was  in  her  own  room  preparing  for  rest,  she  was 
startled  by  hearing  a  little  voice  proceeding  from  May's  bed. 
She  went  round  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

*  I  want  to  ask  you  something,'  was  the  answer  to  her  in- 
quiries. '  Aunt  Isabel,'  as  her  aunt  knelt  by  her  side,  *  Aunt 
Isabel,  papa  is  your  brother,  isn't  he  ? ' 

The  question  was  rather  startling,  for  Isabel  perceived  the 
drift  of  it.  *  No,  dear,  not  my  own  brother,'  she  said  with  some 
hesitation.     *But  May,  you  ought  to  be  asleep  now.' 

*  Yes ;  but  won't  you  tell  me  first  1  He  isn't  your  own 
brother?     Why  not?' 

Isabel  explained. 

May  pondered  a  little,  as  if  some  idea  had  struck  her.  *  Then 
brothers  and  sisters  that  are  not  "  own  "  don't  love  each  other  1 ' 
she  said. 

'  Not  always,  dear.'     The  answer  was  very  low. 

'But  you  love  him,  Aunt  Isabel,  don't  you?  You  told  me 
you  did.' 

'  Yes,  dear,  so  I  do  ;  very,  very  much.' 

'  And  doesn't  he  love  you  ! ' 

There  was  no  answer.  Isabel's  face  was  hidden.  For  a  long 
time  she  knelt  there  in  silence,  and  then  she  was  roused  by  a 
little  head  laid  on  her  shoulder. 

'  /  love  you,  Aunt  Isabel !     I  shall  always  love  you — always  !  * 


348  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

'from  out  the  clouds  the  mother  looks.' 

*  May,  my  darling,  you  seem  very  tired,'  Percy  remarked  on  the 
following  evening,  as  he  stood  watching  his  little  girl,  who  was 
hanging  listlessly  over  the  back  of  a  garden-chair,  looking  pale 
and  heavy-eyed.     *  Don't  yon  feel  well,  my  child  ? ' 

*  Yes/  But  she  did  not  move ;  she  still  stood  resting  her 
head  upon  the  chair,  and  swinging  one  foot  backwards  and  for- 
wards, as  if  she  found  greater  amusement  in  such  an  occupation, 
than  in  the  games  of  which  in  general  she  was  so  fond. 

*  I  daresay  she  is  tired,'  Elinor  said,  looking  up  from  the  book 
she  was  reading.  *  She  has  been  running  about  all  afternoon. 
Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed,  May  dear  ?' 

But  at  this  proposition  May  woke  into  life.  She  wasn't 
tired ;  she  didn't  want  to  go  to  bed.'  And  she  vanished  with 
Prince,  her  voice  being  heard  presently  in  ringing  laughter  at  the 
other  end  of  the  garden.  But  she  came  back  after  a  time  with 
a  flushed  face  and  weary  look. 

*  I'll  go  to  bed  now,  Aunt  JSTelly,'  she  said  quietly,  'I'm  very 
tired.     Will  you  take  me,  please  ] ' 

A  request  with  which  Elinor  would  readily  have  complied,  but 
Percy  forestalled  her.  He  lifted  May  in  his  arms,  and  carried 
her  off  to  the  nursery,  though  he  told  her  smilingly  as  they  went 
up  stairs,  that  he  thought  she  was  getting  too  old  now  to  be 
carried  in  that  way.  She  did  not  resent  the  assertion  as  she 
usually  did  with  a  whole  string  of  noisy  negatives ;  she  seemed 
too  tired  for  talking,  and  the  huggings  and  kissings  with  which 
she  always  parted  from  him  were  dispensed  with  this  evening. 
Making  her  over  to  her  nurse's  care,  Percy  returned  to  the  gar- 
den to  pace  up  and  down  the  green  walk,  as  he  often  did  at  that, 
hour,  and  the  night  being  very  warm,  he  remained  there  till  long 
after  it  was  dark.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  he  returned 
to  the  house,  and  on  going  into  the  drawing-room  he  found  only 
Isabel  and  Elinor  there ;  the  former  reading,  the  latter  seated  at 
the  tea-table. 

*  Papa  is  out,'  Elinor  said  in  answer  to  his  inquiries  for  the 


^  FROM  OUT  THE  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHER  LOOKS.'    349 

others.  *  He  hasn't  been  home  since  dinner,  and  mamma  and 
Susan  are  gone  to  the  Merediths';  there's  a  dance  there  this 
evening,  you  know.  It  ^s  a  pity  you  missed  seeing  Susan  before 
she  went,'  she  added  with  a  smile.     *  She  looked  so  pretty.' 

Percy  smiled  too.  *  She  won't  make  herself  unhappy  at  having 
missed  my  admiration,  I  daresay,'  drawing  a  chair  to  the  table 
as  he  spoke,  and  taking  the  cup  of  tea  his  sister  handed  to  him. 
^  George  Meredith  is  at  home  now,  isn't  heV 

*  To  be  sure  he  is.  This  dance  is  given  in  his  honour.  Mamma 
didn't  mean  to  go  at  first ;  but  he  made  such  a  fuss,  and  Susan 
was  so  disappointed,  that  she  gave  in  afterwards.  George  is  a 
very  nice  fellow,'  added  Elinor  musingly. 

*  You  wouldn't  mind  him  for  a  brother-in-law/  Percy  said, 
quietly. 

*  Not  at  all.  And  as  I  feel  sure  we  shall  have  him  some  day, 
it  is  as  well  I  shouldn't  mind  it.  But  I  shall  like  it  very 
much,  and  so  will  mamma ;  it  will  please  her  exceedingly.  Ah  ! 
there  is  papa.' 

She  made  haste  to  replenish  the  teapot  and  place  a  chair  for 
her  father,  who  came  in  looking  tired,  and,  a  most  unusual  thing 
for  him,  out  of  spirits.  He  was  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  Eli- 
nor remarked  it  as  she  gave  him  his  tea. 

^  Is  anything  the  matter,  papal'  she  asked,  as  she  set  down 
his  cup  by  his  side. 

He  smiled  then.  'With  me?  No,  Nelly.'  But  he  looked 
grave  again  as  he  added  a  moment  after,  *  Those  little  Bakers 
are  both  dead.' 

'Both!' 

*  Yes,  both ;  one  this  morning,  and  the  other  an  hour  ago. 
You  have  not  been  in  any  of  those  back  streets  lately,  I  sup- 
pose?' 

He  was  speaking  to  his  daughter,  but  his  eye  had  turned  to 
Percy,  and  Elinor  knew  of  whom  he  was  thinking. 

*  Oh,  no,'  she  said,  hastily.  '  We  have  always  walked  the 
other  way  since  you  told  us  they  had  the  fever  so  much  there. 
No  one  has  ever  been  in  that  direction.' 

'  That 's  right.     I  have  been  speaking  to  Mr  Elvers  to-day 
,  about  breaking  up  the  schools  for  the  present.     Such  numbers 
come  from  that  neighbourhood,  and  the  parents  are  so  foolish,' 
said  the  doctor,  waxing  wrathful.    *  They  think  nothing  of  send- 
ing children  from  houses  where  they  know  they  have  the  fever. 


350  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

Actually,  there  were  three  of  the  Lofts  at  the  school  yesterday, 
while  the  youngest  was  in  bed  with  it ;  and  to-day  they  have  all 
got  it.  I  gave  Mrs  Loft  a  regular  blowing-up  this  afternoon; 
not  that  that  would  do  much  good  considering  the  mischief  was 
done/ 

^  Mrs  Loft !  You  don't  mean  to  say  they  have  it  there  !*  It 
was  Isabel  who  spoke  now,  and  who  looked  very  pale. 

'  Yes,  Mrs  Loft.  What  about  her  1  You  have  not  been  there, 
surely  1 ' 

*  No,  oh  no  !  Only' her  voice  trembled.     ^  We  met  little 

Emma  yesterday.  May  and  I,  close  to  this  door,  and  we  stopped 
to  speak  to  her.  I  quite  forgot  at  the  time  they  lived  in  Ham- 
mond Place  j  and  May  wanted  to  see  something  she  had,  so 
we' 

But  here  Isabel  stopped  short.  She  had  with  difficulty  got 
as  far  as  that,  and  something  in  her  brother's  face  then  made 
her  break  down  altogether.  Dr  Tennent  glanced  at  him  uneasily; 
but  his  daughter's  distress  was  too  evident  to  allow  him  to  blame 
her. 

*  It  was  a  pity,'  he  said.  *  But  we  11  hope  there  is  no  harm 
done.  It  was  in  the  open  air,  and  you  were  not  long  with  the 
child,  I  suppose?' 

She  hesitated.  ^  Not  very  long,  but  some  little  time ;  five 
minutes,  perhaps.' 

Dr  Tennent  was  silent ;  but  Percy  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
rose  abruptly. 

^  My  poor  little  May !  Mary  would  have  taken  more  care  of 
her;'  he  said  bitterly;  and  he  took  several  turns  across  the 
room,  while  Isabel  was  struggling  with  her  tears. 

*  You  are  unjust  there,  Percy,'  remarked  his  father  gravely ; 
'  no  one  can  be  more  careful  of  May  than  Isabel.  The  child 
herself  would  be  the  first  to  tell  you  so  if  you  were  to  ask  her.' 

Percy  made  no  reply.  He  continued  his  walk  for  some  minutes 
in  silence  and  then  left  the  room ;  and  when  Dr  Tennent  fol- 
lowed him  shortly  afterwards,  he  found  as  he  expected  that  he 
had  gone  to  his  sister's  room,  and  was  standing  beside  May's 
little  bed.  She  was  sleeping  very  quietly,  but  her  father  pointed 
uneasily  to  a  bright  spot  on  her  cheek.  It  was  only  the  side, 
however,  on  which  she  had  been  lying ;  and  Dr  Tennent  smiled 
a  little  as  he  felt  her  hand. 

*  Not  much  the  matter  with  her  at  present,'  he  said ;  *  but  we 


^FKOM  OUT  THE  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHER  LOOKS.'         351 

shall  see  how  she  is  to-morrow.     If  you  are  at  all  afraid  for  her, 
we  can  send  her  off  to  Copelands/ 

*  Yes ;  that  was  what  I  had  been  thinking.  She  shall  go  cer- 
tainly. I  will  take  her  over  myself  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  she  shall  stay  there  for  the  present.  I  can't  afford  to 
run  any  risks  with  her.    My  little  May,  my  own  precious  child!' 

Alone  in  her  room  that  night,  poor  Isabel  knelt  by  May's  side, 
and  prayed  with  many  bitter  tears  that  the  life  of  her  brother's 
child  might  not  have  been  endangered  through  her  carelessness ; 
that  she  might  be  spared  the  misery  of  knowing  she  had  brought 
another  heavy  trial  on  him,  and  made  his  lonely  life  yet  more 
lonely.  Her  prayer  was  not  answered  in  the  way  she  hoped ; 
and  for  long  she  thought  it  had  not  been  heard  at  all. 

She  slept  little  that  night,  being  kept  awake  by  the  heat  and 
her  own  uneasiness.  She  fancied,  too,  that  the  child  seemed 
restless ;  and  once  or  twice  she  heard  her  moaning  and  mutter- 
ing in  her  sleep.  It  was  not  until  daylight  was  almost  dawning 
that  anything  like  sound  slumber  came  to  her.  But  it  did  not 
last  long ;  she  had  not  been  sleeping  half  an  hour  when  she  was 
roused  by  a  scream.  May  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  trembling  with 
fright. 

*  Take  it  away,  Aunt  Isabel;  take  it  way!'  she  exclaimed, 
and  she  clung  to  her  imploringly. 

'  What  is  it,  dearest  ?  Tiiere  "is  nothing  here.  What  are  you 
afraid  of  1 ' 

*  A  cat — a  black  cat  I     Take  it  away  !'  May  muttered. 

*  A  cat !  No,  my  pet ;  there  isn't.  And  if  there  were,  you 
are  not  afraid  of  cats^'  And  Isabel  tried  to  laugh.  *  But  you 
were  only  dreaming.' 

'  Was  I  ? '  May  shivered,  but  her  hands  were  burning,  and 
even  in  the  faint  light  of  the  early  dawn,  Isabel  could  see  that 
her  face  was  unnaturally  flushed.  She  was  frightened  herself 
then.  Rising  hastily,  she  hurried  on  her  clothes,  and  went  to 
call  her  father.  He  was  not  long  in  answering  her  summons, 
but  the  first  glance  she  took  at  his  countenance  as  he  stood  by 
the  side  of  the  child  brought  her  no  comfort ;  it  told  her  at  once 
her  fears  were  only  two  well  founded.  Yes,  May  was  ill ;  and 
it  was  her  doing.  Her  prayer  of  the  night  before  was  not  to  be 
answered  —  her  sin  of  long  ago  prevented  that,  she  thought. 
She  looked  so  wretched  that  her  father's  pity  was  aroused. 

^  You  must  not   make   yourself   unhappy,  Isabel,'  he   said 


352  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

kindly.     '  She  might  have  had  it  just  the  same  if  you  had  never 
met  that  child.' 

Isabel  was  silent,  but  it  was  not  because  the  words  brought 
much  consolation — they  were  scarcely  heeded,  indeed  j  for  the 
conviction  that  May's  illness  was  the  result  of  her  own  careless- 
ness was  too  strong  for  any  attempts  at  comfort  to  reach  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  brother — thinking  how  she  could  bear 
his  reproaches,  and  the  sight  of  his  misery. 

*  We  shall  have  to  send  the  others  off,'  Dr  Tennent  said.    *  We 

must  get  them  out  of  the  way  of  infection  at  once.    But  you 

Will  you  be  afraid  to  stay,  do  you  think '? ' 

*  Afraid  !   I  am  not  much  of  a  nurse,  you  know  j  but ' 

her  voice  trembled.     *  I  will  do  my  best — indeed  I  will.' 

'  I  am  sure  of  that,  my  dear;  and  you  will  have  Lane  to  help 
you.  And  now  I  must  see  about  sending  the  others  off.  They 
must  go  to  Copelands  for  the  present.' 

A  great  deal  of  stir  and  bustle  there  was  at  the  Priory  that 
morning,  but  not  much  of  it  reached  Isabel's  room.  May  awoke 
to  headache  and  fever,  and  every  moan  and  restless  movement 
of  hers  went  to  her  aunt's  heart  as  she  sat  by  her  side,  calm 
outwardly,  but  striving  in  vain  to  still  the  tumult  of  feelings 
within  —  feelings  which  increased  tenfold  in  their  bitterness 
when  her  brother  came  to  stand  beside  his  child.  It  was  true 
he  said  nothing — she  had  not  to  bear  the  reproaches  she  had 
feared ;  but  she  would  almost  sooner  have  had  them  than  have 
seen  the  look  with  which  he  bent  over  his  little  May  as  she  lay 
with  her  eyes  closed,  her  lips  parched,  and  her  cheek  bright  with 
the  flush  of  fever. 

*  My  poor  little  girl ! '  he  said  tenderly,  and  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice  she  stopped  her  uneasy  moaning  and  looked  up. 

*  Dear  papa  ! '  she  exclaimed  in  her  usual  tone ;  but  a  moment 
after  the  fretful  little  voice  began  again. 

*  0  Aunt  Isabel,  my  head  aches  !  I  'm  so  tired  and  so  thirsty 
— mayn't  I  have  something  to  drink?' 

A  strange  sad  day  that  was.  When  Mrs  Tennent,  with  the 
rest  of  the  party,  had  gone  off  to  Copelands,  silence  settled  down 
upon  the  house,  and  except  in  that  one  room,  the  place  appeared 
deserted.  The  sultry  heat  was  oppressive,  but  it  was  hardly 
more  so  within  than  without.  The  very  air  seemed  in  a  blaze, 
the  lawn  and  the  lime-trees  lay  smoking  in  the  sunlight, 
and  the  slight  breeze  that  crept  into  the  room,  bringing  with 


^FEOM  OUT  THE  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHEK  LOOKS.'   353 

it  the  many  busy  sounds  from  the  town  around,  felt  hot  and 
stifling. 

As  evening  came  on,  however,  May  grew  less  restless  :  she 
seemed  to  sleep  at  intervals,  and  there  was  hope  that  the  fever 
might  yield  to  the  remedies  that  had  been  tried.  She  had  been 
lying  very  quietly  for  some  time  in  a  half- dozing  state,  when  a 
slight  movement  of  Percy's  roused  her,  and  she  looked  up  startled ; 
but  presently  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a  smile. 

*  Papa,  I  had  such  an  odd  dream  just  then.  At  least  not  a 
dream  exactly ;  for  I  wasn't  asleep,  because  I  saw  you  and  Aunt 
Isabel  sitting  there.  I  was  lying  looking  at  you,  when  I  saw 
some  one  else,  too ;  some  one  just  like  that  picture  in  the  draw^er 

•in  your  room.  Aunt  Isabel.  She  was  so  pretty,  and  she  had  such 
beautiful  long  hair ;  you  showed  it  me  the  other  day,  you  know, 
papa.  I  knew  directly  it  was  mamma,  and  I  wasn't  a  bit  afraid. 
She  held  out  her  hand,  and  she  said,  '•  Will  you  come  with  me, 
little  May*^"  And  she  smiled,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to 
go;  but  when  I  was  putting  out  my  hand  for  her  to  take,  I 
thought  of  you,  papa.  I  thought  you  would  be  so  sorry  if  I 
went — that  you  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  me ;  and  I 
told  her  so.  But  she  held  out  her  hand  still,  and  I  think  she 
was  going  to  say  something  else,  only  just  then  you  moved ;  and 
when  I  looked  for  her  again  she  was  gone.  There  were  only  you 
and  Aunt  Isabel  here  alone.  I  was  so  surprised,  because  I  w^as 
sure  she  was  there.     You  didn't  see  her  too,  did  you,  papa  1 ' 

*  'No,  dearest.'  His  voice  faltered  a  little.  *  You  were  asleep, 
my  child.* 

'  Not  asleep,'  May  said,  decidedly.  *  It  was  a  thought ;  but 
it  was  a  strange  one,  wasn't  it  V 

*  Very  ;  but  people  have  strange  fancies,  my  darling,  when  they 
are  ill.'     His  tone  was  unnatural  in  its  forced  quietness. 

May  was  silent  for  some  little  time ;  she  lay  looking  with  very 
wistful  eyes,  first  at  him  and  then  at  her  aunt. 

^  I  wonder  if  people  go  on  loving  in  heaven  ? '  she  remarked, 
after  a  pause.  *  But  it  can't  be  the  same  thing  if  they  do.  It 
wouldn't  be  the  same  to  you,  papa,  if  I  loved  you  there,  as 
it  is  now  you  have  me  here.  And  it  w^ouldn't  be  the  same  to 
Aunt  Isabel  either.  And,'  looking  at  him  earnestly,  'do  you 
know  I  made  her  a  promise  the  other  day.  I  told  her  I  would 
always  love  her.  If  I  go  away,  I  can't  keep  my  promise — at 
least  she  will  never  know  -whether  I  do  or  not.     I  should  be 

Z 


354  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

sorry  for  that,  because  I  want  her  to  have  somebody  to  love 
her/ 

She  looked  at  him  again,  but  he  was  silent. 

'People  always  like  to  have  somebody  to  love  them,  don't 
they?     You  do,  papa?' 

*  I  do,  my  little  May.  I  like  to  have  you,  my  child.'  And  he 
bent  down  over  her,  and  kissed  her  burning  forehead. 

*  And  I  suppose  she  does,  too.  She  has  always  been  so  kind 
to  me,  and  loved  me  so  much,  that  I  hope  if  I  go  away,  and 
can't  love  her  any  more,  she  will  have  some  one  else  to  love  her 
instead.  And  I  think  she  will,'  said  May ;  and  this  time  she 
turned  her  eyes  with  a  smile  upon  her  aunt. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  IsabeFs  agitation  was  too  great  for 
her  to  speak ;  and  Percy  was  struggling,  almost  in  vain,  to 
maintain  his  usual  proud  coldness.  May  lay  very  quiet  again, 
appearing  to  be  once  more  half  sleeping.  But  her  quietness  did 
not  last  long.  She  started  up  after  a  time,  from  the  half  doze, 
half  stupor,  in  which  she  had  been  lying,  and  there  was  some- 
thing so  wild  in  her  look,  as  her  eye  wandered  round  the  room, 
that  Percy  saw  at  once  her  illness  had  taken  a  new  turn.  To 
his  grief  he  found  she  did  not  know  him.' 

*  Aunt  Isabel ! '  she  exclaimed,  piteously.  *  Aunt  Isabel ! 
Where  is  she  1  Won't  she  come  to  me  ? '  And  in  vain  he  spoke 
to  her,  calling  her  by  every  endearing  name.  She  turned  from 
him.  *  Not  you ;  not  you,'  she  said  wildly.  *  It 's  Aunt  Isabel 
I  want :  tell  her  to  come  to  me.'  And  her  tones  grew  so  pathetic 
in  their  entreaty  that,  reluctant  as  Percy  was  to  yield  his  place 
to  another,  he  was  fain  to  do  so  when  he  found  no  words  of  his 
could  recal  her  wandering  mind,  or  quiet  her  restlessness.  But 
w^hen  Isabel  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  holding  her  hand  in  hers, 
spoke  to  her  in  the  low  gentle  tones  she  had  known  from  infancy, 
she  was  calmed  at  once.  Calmed  for  the  time ;  but  the  fever 
increased  rapidly ;  and  all  that  night,  and  for  many  days  after- 
wards, the  poor  child  lay  in  delirium,  either  moaning  and 
muttering  low  to  herself  in  her  more  quiet  moments,  or  talking 
wildly  and  incoherently  at  others,  when  the  fever  was  at  its 
height. 

But  there  came  a  day  at  last  which  Dr  Tennent  said  must 
bring  a  crisis.  Percy  came  into  his  sister's  room  that  afternoon, 
and  found  her  seated  near  the  open  window  with  May  upon  her 
lap.     The  child  had  been  so  restless  in  her  bed — her  little  limbs, 


*FROM  OUT  THE  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHER  LOOKS.'   355 

wasted  with  illness,  were  so  weary  with  lying  there,  that  Isabel 
had  taken  her  up,  and  she  was  now  sitting  wrapped  in  a  shawl 
on  her  aunt's  knee,  with  her  head  upon  her  shoulder ;  her  burning 
cheek,  labouring  breath,  and  uneasy  moaning,  telling  a  sad  tale 
of  fever  and  suffering.  She  turned  her  head  when  her  father 
came  up,  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  but  it  was  with  a 
vacant  gaze ;  she  did  not  know  him,  and  began  once  more  the 
low  wailing  cry  which  was  all  she  seemed  now  to  have  strength 
for,  but  which  was  more  wearing  to  those  about  her  than  her 
former  incoherent  ramblings  and  delirious  ravings  had  been. 
Poor  Isabel  had  heard  it  incessantly  for  so  many  days,  that 
she  looked  as  if  she  were  worn  out  with  the  sound ;  but  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  as  gentle  as  ever ;  and  her  face,  as 
she  bent  over  the  suffering  child,  though  sad  and  pale,  was 
very  loving.  Percy's  eye  lingered  on  her  that  afternoon  almost 
as  often  as  on  his  child ;  and  there  was  a  strange  look  now  and 
then  on  his  face,  as  he  listened  to  her  speaking  in  low  soothing 
tones  to  May,  and  saw  the  child  nestle  closer  to  her  in  her  con- 
fiding, way,  as  if  she  were  in  her  mother's  arms. 

It  grew  dark  sooner  than  usual  that  evening  ;  for  there  was  a 
heavy  bank  of  clouds  in  the  west,  and  all  the  sky  looked  stormy. 
And  after  the  sun  had  gone  down,  the  wind  began  to  be  heard ; 
coming  at  first  with  a  low  creeping  sound,  stirring  the  tops  of 
the  lime-trees,  brushing  the  vine-leaves  that  grew  over  the  win- 
dows, and  stealing  cool  and  fresh  into  that  fevered  room.  P)ut 
it  grew  stronger  by  degrees,  and  soon  all  the  boughs  of  the 
garden-trees  were  creaking  and  groaning  as  it  passed,  and  its 
shrill  blast  roused  little  May  to  recommence  the  moaning  which 
for  a  time  she  had  ceased. 

But  that  weary  sound  was  not  to  go  on  now  for  very  long. 
Isabel  was  soon  aware  that  it  was  once  more  ceasing ;  and  that 
with  it  too  were  ceasing  the  child's  restless  movements.  There 
was  a  silence  so  still  and  deep  that  she  was  afraid  to  move — 
afraid  to  look  lest  she  should  see  she  knew  not  what — but  some- 
thing that  would  tell  her  May  was  passing  away.  Had  the  end 
indeed  come  so  soon  ?  Was  Lisa  really  there  to  fetch  her 
child? 

But  while  she  was  sitting  motionless  with  that  great  fear 
weighing  her  down,  her  father  entered  the  room,  and  came  up  to 
the  back  of  her  chair.  He  bent  over  the  child  and  looked  at  her 
for  some  moments. 


856  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

*  Can't  you  lay  her  down  l '  lie  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  She  is 
asleep  now,  and  may  sleep  for  hours.' 

*  Asleep  !'  Isabel's  long-drawn  sigh  was  one  of  the  most  in- 
tense thankfulness. 

'  Yes,  the  fever  has  turned,'  Dr  Tennent  said  ;  *  but  she  must 
have  this  sleep  out.  And  I  want  you  to  have  some  rest  too. 
You  need  it  sadly ;  can't  you  lay  her  down  without  disturbing 
her?' 

But  that  was  impossible  ;  for  when  Isabel  tried  to  raise  the 
little  head  from  her  shoulder,  May  moved  uneasily,  and  half 
roused  herself. 

*  She  had  better  stay  where  she  is,'  she  said.  ^  Never  mind 
me.     I  can  rest  afterwards.' 

And  once  more  she  drew  the  little  sleeper  to  her,  and  resumed 
her  former  position.  She  was  very  weary,  and  her  limbs  felt 
cramped  and  stiff;  but  it  could  hardly  have  been  with  the  weight 
of  her  burden,  for  May,  never  very  heavy,  was  light  enough  noAV. 
She  w^as  little  more  than  skin  and  bone,  and  her  tiny  feet  and 
ankles  peeping  from  beneath  her  nightdress  looked  hardly  more 
than  those  of  a  baby.  Her  face  too  was  shrunken,  and  appeared 
even  smaller  than  it  really  was,  from  having  lost  all  the  long 
curls  that  had  always  hung  about  it.  But  it  was  a  very  sweet 
face  still ;  and  as  Isabel  looked  at  it,  it  was  such  relief  to  see  it 
at  rest  again — to  see  the  heavy  eyes  closed  in  quiet  sleep,  instead 
of  meeting  only  their  wandering  glances,  that  she  could  not 
think  of  her  own  fatigue.  She  could  only  sit,  conscious  of  no- 
thing exactly ;  and  how  that  long  night  passed  she  never  knew. 
She  knew  there  was  a  storm — that  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents 
in  the  lulls  of  the  wind,  and  she  saw  the  flash  of  the  lightning 
and  heard  the  heavy  roll  of  the  thunder,  but  it  sounded  far  off 
and  indistinct,  and  she  felt  as  if  what  she  saw  and  heard  were 
no  realities.  In  the  same  way  too  she  knew  that  her  brother, 
who  could  not  bear  to  leave  his  child,  was  in  the  room  all  the 
night  watching  with  her;  and  she  knew  also  that  Lane  came  in 
at  times — that  she  closed  the  window  once  because  the  air  wa.s 
growing  damp,  and  that  another  time  she  brought  a  second  shawl 
to  throw  over  May  and  herself.  That  must  have  been  near 
morning  surely,  for  the  night  had  been  so  very  long  ;  but  yet 
there  were  no  signs  of  daylight.  The  lamp  on  the  table  burned 
bright  and   clear,  and  through  the  door,  which  had  been  left 


^FROM  OUT  THK  CLOUDS  THE  MOTHER  LOOKS.'        «357 

Open,  she  could  see  that  the  passage  beyond  was  still  dark.  Very 
dark  it  looked — dark  and  shadowy;  and  somehow,  in  the  dreamy 
state  in  which  she  then  was,  she  began  to  fill  it  with  shadowy 
forms.  Not  of  imaginary  beings,  but  of  those  who  had  once 
really  gone  up  and  down  it.  She  saw  them  all,  not  as  they  were 
now — some  changed,  some  gone,  and  those  who  remained  bur- 
dened with  the  cares  of  life ;  but  she  saw  them  as  they  had  been, 
a  joyous  light-hearted  band ;  she  heard  their  footsteps  passing  to 
and  fro ;  she  listened  to  their  voices  and  to  the  echo  of  their 
laugh  and  song.  That  dark  passage  was  peopled  with  the  ghosts 
of  her  earlier  years,  and  very  blissful  was  the  dream  in  which  she 
sat ;  for  she  thought  the  days  she  so  bitterly  regretted  were  not 
yet  gone — that  the  time  she  would  so  gladly  have  recalled  had 
not  yet  faded  into  the  irrevocable  past.  Kind  words,  kind  looks, 
kind  thoughts  were  still  in  her  power;  there  was  work  for  others 
to  be  done,  and  there  were  the  hours  still  before  her  to  do  it  in. 
And  more  than  all,  those  whom  she  loved  and  mourned,  those 
whom  she  had  wronged  and  slighted  and  harshly  judged,  were 
there — she  was  listening  to  their  words,  and  she  saw  them  pass- 
ing by  her,  young  and  blithe  and  beautiful,  with  no  shadow  of 
death  or  change  upon  their  brow. 

But  that  dream  could  not  last ;  she  was  recalled  from  those 
visions  of  the  past. 

*  Drink  it.  Miss  Isabel,'  she  heard  Lane  saying ;  and  she  came 
back  from  the  world  of  fancies  to  find  the  old  nurse  by  her  side 
with  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  in  her  hand.  *  Drink  it.  Miss  Isabel, 
there  's  a  dear  !     You  want  it,  for  you  look  dreadfully  ill.' 

*  Yes,  drink  it,  Isabel.  I  am  sure  you  want  it,'  said  another 
voice ;  and  how  strange  that  voice  sounded  !  She  had  not  heard 
it  for  years  !  Was  it  really  her  brother  who  was  speaking  1  Was 
she  back  in  those  old  times  of  which  she  had  been  thinking  1 
No ;  for  May  was  on  her  arm,  and  the  night-light  burned  on  the 
table  before  her.  She  remembered  w^here  she  was,  but  felt  con- 
fused still ;  and  not  only  confused,  but,  as  Lane  had  said,  she 
looked  ill — so  ill  that  eating  and  drinking  w^ere  things  impossible; 
and  she  turned  from  the  cup  which  was  held  to  her  as  if  it  were 
a  poisoned  draught. 

*  I  can't  drink  it,'  she  said.  *  Let  me  alone  till  afterwards.  I 
shall  do  better  as  I  am.' 

So  they  let  her  alone — and  that  was  the  last  she  seemed  to 
know  of  that  night.     Slowly  as  its  hours  crept  by,  they  did  go 


358  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

at  length ;    darkness  changed   to   greyness,  and  then  the  grey 
light  of  early  morning  gave  place  to  the  full  glory  of  the  day. 

The  chimes  of  the  old  Priory  Church  were  ringing  out  the 
hour  of  eight  when  May  awoke — the  flush  of  fever  gone  from 
her  face,  the  light  of  reason  returned  to  her  eye.  She  knew  her 
father  as  he  knelt  by  her  side,  though  when  she  tried  to  raise 
her  hand  to  lift  it  to  his,  it  fell  again  from  weakness,  and  her 
head  drooped  once  more  on  the  shoulder  upon  which  it  had  been 
resting.  But  Lane  stood  ready  with  the  jelly  which  had  been 
provided,  and  some  spoonfuls  of  that  revived  her ;  and  then  she 
looked  up  again,  this  time  to  greet  him  with  a  smile. 

*  You  know  me,  my  child,  my  little  May,  don't  jonV  he  said, 
feeling  as  if  his  happiness  were  too  great  to  last. 

*  Yes,'  her  large  eyes  expressing  some  surprise — perhaps  she 
wondered  to  see  him  kneeling  there,  and  to  find  herself  in  her 
aunt's  arms  instead  of  in  her  own  bed.  But  she  was  too  weak 
to  give  utterance  to  her  astonishment  in  words^  and  Lane,  who 
had  watched  the  effects  of  those  few  spoonfuls  of  nourishment 
with  much  satisfaction,  had  hardly  time  to  administer  three  or 
four  more  before  she  was  asleep  again — sleeping  so  soundly  that 
there  seemed  but  little  fear  of  disturbing  her. 

'  And  that  is  what  you  must  do.  Miss  Isabel,'  Lane  said,  taking 
the  child  from  her  arms.  *  She  will  do  now  ;  I  will  look  after 
her,  and  you  must  just  go  and  lie  down.  And  if  you  take  my 
advice,  you  '11  go  to  Miss  Mary's  room,  where  you  can  be  quiet 
and  have  your  rest  out.  You  want  it,  if  anybody  ever  did,  for 
you  look  like  a  ghost.' 

Bat  Isabel's  strength  was  gone  now;  the  call  for  exertion  was 
over,  and  with  it  went  all  that  had  kept  her  up.  Weary  and  ill 
as  she  was,  there  had  just  been  consciousness  enough  left  to 
realise  that  May  was  safe,  consciousness  enough  to  send  up  her 
whole  soul  in  thanksgiving  that  so  much  more  had  been  granted 
than  she  had  dared  to  hope ;  and  now  at  last  she  gave  way.  The 
floor  seemed  to  totter  beneath  her  feet,  strange  figures  danced 
round  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  darkness  came  over  her. 
Sense  and  power  failed  her  at  once,  and  she  fell  back  in  the  chair 
in  which  she  had  been  sitting,  and  fainted  away. 


'THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  Me/  359 


CHAPTER  L. 

*  THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  ME.' 

It  was  many  a  long  day  after  that  before  Isabel  awoke  again  to 
consciousness.  Dreary  hours  of  weakness  and  delirium  followed 
that  fortnight's  watching,  and  the  suspense  of  that  last  terrible 
night.  The  strain  upon  mind  and  body  had  been  too  great  for 
her  easily  to  shake  off  its  effects,  and  when  she  succumbed  to 
the  fever  which  had  well-nigh  carried  off  little  May,  she  seemed 
to  have  no  strength  to  struggle  with  it.  She  lay  for  long  in 
a  state  of  such  extreme  danger  that  but  the  faintest  hopes  were 
entertained  of  her  recovery,  and  even  when  the  worst  symptoms 
at  length  passed  away,  her  state  of  utter  prostration  was  such 
that  for  many  days  there  appeared  no  chance  of  her  rallying  from 
the  weakness  left  by  illness  and  anxiety.  It  was  some  weeks, 
indeed,  after  her  first  seizure  before  any  real  signs  of  amend- 
ment began  to  show  themselves,  or  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of 
what  was  passing  about  her.  When  she  did  once  more  awake 
to  full  consciousness,  it  was  to  find  herself,  on  a  summer's  after- 
noon, lying  in  a  quiet  shaded  room,  with  Mary  sitting  by  her 
side.     She  looked  at  her  sister  in  surprise. 

*  You  here,  Mary  ! ' 

'  Yes.'  Mary's  smile  was  the  same  as  ever,  just  as  bright,  just 
as  pleasant ;  there  was  little  change  in  her  indeed  in  any  way  ; 
six  years  did  not  seem  to  have  added  a  line  to  her  face  or  cast  a 
shadow  upon  the  cheerfulness  of  her  spirit. 

*  Didn't  you  know  I  was  here  then  ? '  she  said.  ^  You  have 
often  talked  to  me ;  I  thought  perhaps  you  knew  me.' 

*  No,'  Isabel  lay  back  again.  '  At  least  I  don't  seem  to  re- 
member anything  about  it.  I  fancied  every  one  was  here  at 
times,'  with  a  long  sigh.  *  How  long  have  you  been  here,  Mary, 
and  where  is  May  1     Is  she  well  yet — what  is  she  doing  1 ' 

'  She  is  much  better,'  Mary  said.  *  Percy  has  taken  her  to 
Firsby  for  change  and  sea-air.' 

*  Better,  really  better ! '  Isabel  murmured.  *  Mary,  are  you 
sure  1 '     And  she  caught  her  sister's  hand. 

*  Quite  sure,  dear.     I  wouldn't  tell  you  anything  that  was  not 


ii 

360                                  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY.  I 

true.     He  says  she  is  looking  almost  herself  again.     He  writes  \ 

very  happily  about  her/  i 

*  Does  he '?  Ah  !  I  shall  see  her  again,  then,  my  dear  little  ' 
May  !  And  perhaps,'  her  tone  was  lowered  as  if  she  were  speak-  ■ 
ing  to  herself,  '  perhaps  he  may  forgive  me — perhaps  he  may  I 
not  blame  me  so  much  now.'  And  tears  which  she  was  too  weak  \ 
to  restrain  rolled  slowly  down  her  thin  wasted  cheek.  • 

*  He  won't  blame  you  for  anything,  dear  Isabel,'  Mary  said  i 
tenderly.  *  We  all  know  what  you  have  done  for  May,  and 
Percy  won't  be  the  one  to  think  least  of  it,  you  may  be  quite  , 
sure.  But  you  are  talking  too  much  now,  and  you  are  not  to  \ 
speak  another  word  till  you  have  had  something  to  eat.  Papa  ] 
won't  be  at  all  pleased  if  he  finds  you  have  been  over-exerting  | 
yourself.'  \ 

Isabel's  recovery  was  very  slow.     She  had  not  the  buoyancy 

of  spirits  which  enables  some  so  soon  to  throw  off  illness,  and  i 

she  was  long  in  regaining  even  a  slight  degree  of  the  strength  ; 

which  had  been  so  severely  tasked.     But  she  did  at  length  re-  : 

cover  sufficiently  for  her  father  to  pronounce  her  strong  enough  ] 

to  bear  the  journey  to  Firs  by  ;  and,  as  all  fear  of  infection  was  \ 
then  over,  no  time  was  lost  in  setting  out.     The  morning  after 
permission  had  been  given  them  to  go,  she  and  Mary  started  for  ^;h 

their  destination.  | 

There  was  no  one  at  home  when  they  arrived  ;  the  mistress  of 

the  house  was  the  only  person  there  to  receive  thefti :  Colonel  j 

Tennent  was  out  riding  with  his  little  girl,  she  said ;  and  even  i 

Lane  was  away — she  had  gone  into  the  town  to  do  some  shop-  ' 

ping.     Everything  that  was  necessary,  however,  was  soon  done  j 

for  them,  and  after  a  sort  of  luncheon-dinner,  Isabel's  sofa  was  ; 

drawn  up  to  a  window  that  overlooked  the  sea,  and  she  w^as  left  ; 
to  her  own  meditations,  while  Mary  w^ent  away  to  see  to  some 

unpacking.  ; 

It  was  not  long  she  had  to  lie  there  alone.  From  the  cushions  i 
among  which  she  was  resting,  she  had  been  watching  the  sunny  \ 
unrulfied  line  of  waters  before  her,  and  the  long  procession  of  ] 
people  walking  and  driving  on  the  road  in  front  of  the  house,  1 
when  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  coming  up  at  a  canter  and  stop- 
ping at  the  door  made  her  raise  herself  and  look  out  eagerly,  i 
Yes,  there  they  were  ;  there  was  her  brother,  and  there  by  his  i 
side  was  May,  her  little  May,  no  longer  pale  and  wasted  with  ill-  1 
ness,  but  beautiful  and  blooming  with  health  and  exercise ;  her  ! 


^THE  BUKDEK  HAH  FALLEN  FKOM  ME,'  361 

hair,  short  still,  it  was  true,  but  regaining  something  of  its  for- 
mer wave,  and  now  blown  about  her  face — the  colour  in  her 
cheek,  and  her  eyes  bright  and  dancing.  Not  that  Isabel  saw 
all  this  in  her  first  glance,  for  May  was  talking  fast  and  eagerly 
to  her  father,  and  her  head  w^is  turned  another  way  while  she 
pointed  out  over  the  sea.  But  the  landlady  came  out  to  meet 
them,  and  tell,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  arrival  in  their  absence,  and 
then  they  both  looked  up — Percy  too  near-sighted  to  make  out 
his  sister  at  the  window  ;  but  May's  eyes  were  much  quicker. 

*  Yes,  there  she  is — she  's  really  there  ! '  Isabel  heard  her  ex- 
claim. *  O  papa,  take  me  down — quick — this  minute,  please.' 
And  hardly  waiting  for  him  to  come  round,  she  slipped  to  the 
ground. 

Such  a  tiny  dot  she  looked  as  she  stood  there ;  and  in  her 
haste  to  fly  into  the  house  she  set  her  foot  on  her  habit,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  her  father  caught  her.  He  saved  her 
just  in  time,  and  picking  her  up,  carried  her  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and  putting  her  down  there,  opened  the  drawing-room 
door.  With  a  cry  of  joy  May  rushed  forward,  and  flinging  her- 
self on  the  sofa,  well-nigh  smothered  her  aunt  in  her  eager 
embrace. 
v:^     '  You  dear  Aunt  Isabel !      I  'm  so  glad — so  happy  !     Only 

^  ""you're  so  thin,   and  look  so Oh,   but  I'm  so  glad ~ 

And  it  will  be  so  nice  now  you  are  here  !  I'm  very  happy,' 
and  then  she  half  smothered  her  again  with  her  Idsses. 

*  Yes,  that 's  right,  my  little  May,'  Percy  said.  *  You  can 
never  love  her  too  much,  or  thank  her  half  enough  for  what  she 
has  done  for  you.  No  more  can  I — but  you  will  know  what  we 
feel,  Isabel,  won't  you  ?     You  won't  think  us  ungrateful  1 ' 

Isabel  looked  up,  but  she  could  see  nothing  distinctly — there 
was  a  mist  before  her  eyes.  But  she  felt  May's  clinging  caresses, 
and  the  child's  soft  cheek  lying  on  hers  ;  and  that  seemed  to 
bring  the  conviction  that  it  was  in  no  dream  she  had  heard  those 
words. 

'0  Percy!  have  you— can  you  have  forgiven  me?'  she  ex- 
claimed, and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Percy's  answer  was  to  stoop  down,  and  his  kiss  for  the  first 
time  for  many  years  was  once  more  that  of  a  brother. 

*  Can  you  forgive  me?'  he  said.  '  I  believe  I  have  judged  you 
very  harshly,  Isabel,  lately ;  but  I  didn't  know  till  May  was  ill 
that ' 


362  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

^  That  I  was  changed — that  I  think  very  differently  now  from 
what  I  once  did.  But  it  was  my  own  fault,  Percy.  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  so  long  ago.     I  ought  to  have  told  you  years  ago 

how  bitterly  I  repented  my  unkindness  to — to She  forgave 

me,  but  I  was  afraid  to  ask  you,  for  I  thought  you  never  could.' 
She  looked  at  him  through  her  tears. 

^What!  not  after  what  you  have  done  for  her  child?  No, 
Isabel,  whatever  I  may  once  have  thought  of  you,  I  should  be 
most  ungrateful  now  if  I  could  forget  all  you  have  done  for  my 
little  May — for  her  child,  as  well  as  mine.  If  you  once  wronged 
one  who  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  whom,  God  knows,  I  was  per- 
haps too  much  wrapped  up  in,  you  have  saved  another  almost  as 
dear.  Isabel,  will  you  let  us  forget  the  past,  and  be  to  each 
other  again  what  we  used  to  be  1 ' 

*  0  Percy  ! '  she  exclaimed.  *  It  is  you  who  have  to  forget  as 
well  as  forgive ;  but  if  you  could  only  believe  how  I  have  grieved 
for  all  the  unkind  and  jealous  thoughts  I  once  had  !  I  have  never 
been  happy  since ;  but  if  you  can  really  forgive  me ' 

'  If/  Isabel,  you  cannot  doubt  it.'  He  stooped  down  once 
more,  and  this  time  there  was  no  hesitation — no  misgiving  in  his 
sister's  warm  passionate  embrace.  All  the  long  pent-up  affection 
of  years  found  vent  then,  and  in  it  was  buried  by  both  all  recol- 
lection of  former  wrongs  and  misunderstandings. 

And  so  over  Lisa's  little  child  *  those  twain,  long  severed,  were 
reconciled.' 

They  were  long  pleasant  days  that  followed — days  of  returning 
health  to  Isabel,  days  of  returning  happiness  in  her  brother's  re- 
gained affection.  Days  of  returning  happiness  also  to  Percy — 
happiness  greater  than  he  had  known  for  years ;  for  the  healing 
of  that  long-standing  breach  between  himself  and  his  sister  had 
brought  him  peace,  and  his  little  girl  was  once  more  making  the 
sunshine  of  his  life.  And  May,  no  longer  puzzled  and  pained  by 
coldness  between  those  she  loved  best,  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
joyousness,  her  young  voice  and  merry  laughter  making  music  all 
day  long. 

'  A  piece  of  news  ! '  said  Mary,  producing  a  letter  one  morning 
at  the  breakfast-table.  *  And  very  pleasant  news,  too !  Can 
anybody  guess  what  it  is  ? ' 

*  A  wedding  in  prospective,  I  suppose,'  remarked  Isabel.  '  You 
always  look  particularly  delighted  when  you  fancy  two  people  are 
going  to  be  happy  for  life.     Who  is  it,  though  %     Hose  Dacre  ? ' 


^THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  MB.'  363 

*  Eose  Dacre  !  No ;  what  made  you  think  of  her  ?  Somebody 
much  nearer.* 

*  Somebody  much  nearer  !  What !  Not  Susan  ! '  and  as  her 
sister  nodded — '  Susan  and  George  Meredith  !  Well,  I  had  no 
idea  it  would  come  to  anything  so  soon  ! ' 

'  So  soon  1  Why,  had  you  any  idea  of  it  at  all  ?  I  am  sure  I 
hadn't.  If  anybody  had  asked  me  to  guess,  I  don't  believe  I 
should  ever  have  thought  of  them ;  certainly  not  of  George.' 

There  was  a  laugh  and  an  exclamation  at  this  from  both  her 
brother  and  sister. 

*  They  can't  be  married  yet,  though,'  Mary  added.  '  They 
will  have  to  wait  another  year,  for  he  has  not  finished  at  college. 
But  that  is  not  of  much  consequence,  for  he  is  almost  as  young 
as  she  is.  He  isn't  one-and-twenty,  is  he  1  And  he  looks  such 
a  boy.  Nelly  says  papa  and  mamma  are  both  very  much  pleased ; 
mamma  particularly.  There  's  the  letter,  Isabel ;  you  11  like  to 
see  it.' 

Isabel  took  the  letter,  and  while  she  was  reading  it  Mary 
turned  to  her  brother. 

*  Poor  Nelly !  She  writes  in  such  good  spirits  about  Susan, 
and  seems  so  happy  for  her  !  It  is  a  great  pity  she  is  not  going 
to  be  as  happy  herself.  Eeally  she  and  Arthur  ought  to  marry 
now  !  After  waiting  for  him  all  these  years,  and  bearing  every- 
thing so  well  as  she  has  done,  it  ought  to  be  a  match  at  last.' 

*  So  it  ought,'  Percy  said  decidedly.  '  And  so  it  will  too.  Mrs 
Tennent  must  give  in  sooner  or  later,  for  there  is  no  reason  to 
keep  them  apart  any  longer.  Arthur  is  in  a  position  to  marry, 
and  she  must  know  by  this  time  how  honourably  he  has  behaved 
ever  since  he  has  been  in  Atherstone.  He  has  been  kept  out  of 
the  Priory  quite  long  enough  in  my  father  s  opinion.' 

One  evening,  not  many  days  after  that,  Elinor  was  sitting  alone 
in  the  library  at  the  Priory,  busily  occupied  in  the  fading  light 
with  some  household  work.  The  family  were  hardly  settled 
again  in  the  old  house,  which  had  undergone  a  thorough  cleans- 
ing and  purifying  process  since  the  fever ;  and  many  small  do- 
mestic arrangements  and  alterations,  which  Mrs  Tennent  had  seen 
fit  to  make  after  their  return,  had  not  been  completed.  A  pile 
of  curtains  on  which  she  was  sewing  new  fringe  was  engaging 
Elinor's  attention,  and  in  the  dusk  she  was  still  stitching  away, 
hoping  to  finish  her  work  while  there  was  suflS.cient  light  to  see 
where  her  needle  went,  when  a  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  her. 


364  ATIIEKSTONE  PRIORY. 

^  Come  in/  she  said  ;  and  the  door  was  opened,  but  she  did  not 
raise  her  head ;  for  had  she  taken  her  eyes  from  her  work  she 
would  not  have  been  able  to  see  it  again,  and  there  w^is  not  a 
quarter  of  a  yard  more  to  do.  But,  after  a  moment's  pause,  she 
was  surprised  there  was  no  further  movement,  and  that  no  one 
spoke. 

'  Who  is  it  ?'  she  asked.  ^  I  '11  come  in  one  minute,  but  I  'm 
just  finishing  this.     Is  it  you,  Susan  ? ' 

'No,  Elinor.' 

The  voice  was  strangely  familiar  to  her,  and  yet  sadly  strange  ; 
and  she  started  up  and  looked  round.  Dusk  as  it  was,  there  was 
no  mistaking  that  figure  in  the  doorway.  And  back  flashed  upon 
her  mind  the  scene  in  the  dining-room  at  Lassell  Lodge,  and  a  dis- 
mayed group  gathered  round  a  pale  senseless  form  there.  She 
seemed  to  see  them  all  again — to  see  her  brother's  dark  stern  face 
and  her  sister's  indignant  looks,  and  to  hear  once  more  her  own 
wild  incoherent  confession.  She  could  not  speak  now  :  she  could 
only  stand  and  look  ;  for  although  her  lips  moved  several  times, 
no  sound  came. 

*  You  have  forgotten  me  then,  Nelly  ?  You  did  not  wdsh  to 
see  me  again.' 

*  Forgotten  you ! '  she  found  voice  then.  *  0  Arthur  ! '  But 
as  he  came  across  the  room  she  drew  back.  He  understood  the 
movement. 

'  I  am  not  here  without  being  asked,'  he  said  a  little  proudly. 
*  I  might  have  met  you  a  hundred  times  before  this,  Nelly,  if  I 
had  liked ;  btft  I  w^ould  not.  I  knew  it  was  your  wish  as  well 
as  mine  that  we  should  not  meet  again  till  we  could  do  so  fairly 
and  openly ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  when  I  first  came  to  Atlier- 
stone  that  I  would  never  try  to  see  you.  It  is  with  Mrs  Ten- 
nent's  knowledge  I  am  here  now.  I  have  just  been  with  her,  and 
she  told  me  you  were  here — she  sent  me  to  you.' 

'  She  sent  you  ?  Mamma  1 '  Elinor's  bewilderment  was  almost 
too  great  for  w^ords. 

'  Yes ;  at  least  she  told  me  I  should  find  you  here.  I  suppose 
she  meant  me  to  come,'  and  Arthur  smiled  a  little.  *  I  met  my 
uncle  in  the  street  not  half  an  hour  ago,  and  he  asked  me  to 
walk  back  with  him ;  he  said  she  wanted  to  see  me.  For  a 
second,  Nelly,  I  w^is  going  to  be  proud.  You  wouldn't  believe 
it,  would  you  ?  But  she  had  set  her  face  against  me  for  so  long, 
that  for  one  moment  I  thought  I  would  say  "  no,"  and  keep  away 


^  THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  ME.'       365 

altogether ;  but  then  I  remembered  you,  Nelly ;  and  I  remem- 
bered other  things  too.     And  so well,   I  had  no  right  to 

be  proud,  you  see;  so  here  I  am.'  And  the  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  with  which  the  words  were  accompanied  was  so  like 
tha  Arthur  of  old  days  that,  while  Elinor  smiled,  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes. 

*  But  I  don't  understand,'  she  said.     *  What  did  she  say  to  you]' 
'  Lots,'  he  answered,  purposely  mistaking  her  meaning.     *  Not 

80  much  as  I  expected.  But  she  had  her  say,  and  I  made  my 
apologies.  I  could  do  that  with  a  good  grace,  Nelly,  for  I'd 
have  done  it  long  ago  if  she  would  have  let  me.  I  told  her  I 
knew  I  had  behaved  very  badly,  and  had  regretted  it  for  years. 
She  did  not  say  much  after  that;  she  was  very  gracious,  all 
things  considered.  Certainly,  I  have  no  right  to  complain  of 
my  reception,  for  it  was  far  better  than  I  ever  looked  for,'  he 
added,  as  he  stood  watching  his  cousin's  face  in  the  waning  light. 

Elinor  was  silent  for  some  moments.  ^  It  must  have  been 
Percy's  doing,'  she  said  at  last.     ^  Yes,  I  know  it  now.' 

She  stood  and  gazed  at  Arthur,  as  if  it  were  no  reality  she 
saw  there — only  some  vision  that  would  vanish  if  she  spoke  or 
moved.     But  his  voice  recalled  her  to  herself. 

'  You  look  even  now  as  if  you  scarcely  knew  me,'  he  said — 
*  as  if  you  had  forgotten  me,  and  thought  I  was  a  stranger.  But, 
.  Elinor,  you  must  guess  what  I  have  come  for.' 

She  gazed  at  him  still,  and  the  colour  rushed  into  her  face ; 
but  she  did  not  speak. 

^  You  gave  me  your  promise  years  ago,  Nelly.  You  said  when 
I  had  a  home  you  would  share  it  with  me.  I  had  no  right  then 
to  ask  such  a  thing  of  you ;  but  it  is  difierent  now.  I  have  leave 
to  ask  you,  and  I  have  a  home  to  give  you.  Will  you  keep  your 
promise  1 ' 

Elinor  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  but  it  was  only  because  she 
found  no  voice  to  speak — great  happiness  seemed  at  first  to  choke 
her  utterance ;  but,  as  he  looked  at  her  anxiously,  she  held  out 
her  hand. 

*  I  have  not  changed,  Arthur ;  you  are  just  the  same  to  me 
that  you  ever  were,  and  my  promise  is  the  same.  If  I  could  not 
have  kept  it  to  you,  I  should  never  have  made  it  to  any  one  else.' 

*  Ah^  Nelly,  I  knew  I  could  trust  you!'  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
caught  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him ;  and  surely  neither  he  nor 
Elinor  could  have  known  afterwards  what  they  were  doing,  for 


366  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY. 

they  never  discovered  that  for  more  than  an  hour  they  were 
sitting  together  upon  the  heap  of  curtains  which  had  been  thrown 
on  the  sofa  when  he  entered,  and  which  were  reduced  to  anything 
but  a  presentable  state  in  consequence  of  this  little  oversight. 

'And  really/  said  Mrs  Tennent,  when  she  came  to  inspect 
them  a  little  later,  '  I  think  you  might  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  do  your  work  more  tidily,  Elinor.  You  will  never  make  a  good 
housewife  if  you  don't  think  it  worth  while  to  be  as  neat  and 
orderly  with  old  work  as  with  new.  And  as  it  is  my  opinion 
that  you  will  have  more  of  the  first  than  the  last  in  hand,  you 
had  better  learn  to  practise  carefulness  in  time.  You  will  never 
have  money  to  throw  away,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.' 

*  For  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  have  Arthur,'  she  said 
afterwards  to  her  husband.  *  I  knew  how  it  would  be  directly 
they  got  together  again.  It  is  very  foolish  of  her,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  She  must  have  her  own  way,  I  suppose.  So  much 
better  though  as  she  might  have  done  if  she  liked ! ' 

'  I  don't  know  that,'  returned  the  doctor.  '  I  have  a  very  high 
opinion  of  Arthur  now,  and  shall  give  her  to  him  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure.  She  might  have  been  a  little  richer,  perhaps, 
if  she  had  married  any  one  else,  but  I  doubt  if  she  would  have 
been  happier.  I  am  very  well  satisfied,  Helen — very  well  satis- 
fied indeed.' 

'  Of  course  you  are,  Dr  Tennent ;  you  are  satisfied  with 
everything.  If  your  daughters  went  off  to  Gretna  Green,  or 
settled  down  in  a  hovel,  you  would  be  quite  satisfied,  so  that 
they  were  with  somebody  they  had  taken  a  fancy  to.  But  that 
is  not  my  way ;  and  I  am  thankful  that  Susan  has  shown  herself 
a  little  wiser.  As  for  Elinor,  she  must  do  as  she  likes.  I  believe 
she  would  never  have  married  at  all  if  she  couldn't  have  had 
Arthur  ;  so  perhaps  things  are  best  as  they  are.  But  it  is  very 
well  now  to  fancy  she  is  going  to  be  happy  when  there  is  only 
herself  and  him  to  think  of,  but  it  will  be  different  when  there 
come  to  be  a  dozen  children  to  be  fed  and  clothed,  and  appear- 
ances to  be  kept  up  too.  And  she  will  have  an  immense  family, 
of  course :  the  poorer  people  are,  the  more  children  they  have — 
it  is  an  invariable  rule.' 

*  Well,  I  believe  it  often  is  the  case.  It  is  a  merciful  arrange- 
ment,' said  the  doctor.  *  When  blessings  don't  come  in  one  shape, 
they  do  in  another ;  and  children  are  a  great  blessing.' 

'  And  a  great  anxiety,'  said  Mrs  Tennent  sharply. 


'  THE  BURDEN  HAS  FALLEN  FROM  ME.'       367 

*  Yes,  sometimes  j  but  then  one  expects  anxiety  in  this  world, 
and  it  is  well  to  have  some  happiness  with  it.  And  children 
somehow  do  bring  a  great  deal  of  happiness,  though  they  bring 
trouble  too.' 

The  doctor  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  that  it  was  useless  to 
argue  with  him  j  his  wife  therefore  left  him  to  entertain  his  own 
delusions,  and  settled  herself  to  meditate  upon  her  daughter 
Susan's  prospects,  which  in  one  way  were  decidedly  more  pro- 
mising than  Elinor's,  and  bid  fair  to  realise  all  she  had  once 
hoped  for  each  of  her  children. 

But  Elinor  was  very  happy ;  she  never  once  thought  of  envying 
her  younger  sister  the  more  brilliant  future  that  was  in  store  for 
her.  It  was  too  great  happiness  to  be  with  Arthur  again,  to 
know  that  her  engagement  was  an  open  and  honourable  one, 
sanctioned  by  her  parents,  and  approved  by  all  whom  she  most 
cared  for  j  and  in  looking  forward  to  future  years  to  be  spent 
with  him  to  whom  her  affections  had  so  long  been  given,  she 
felt  as  if  there  were  little  else  to  wish  for.  Both  she  and  Arthur 
thought  their  present  happiness  more  than  they  deserved ; 
and  perhaps  neither  felt  this  more  than  one  day  when  he  was 
speaking  of  his  last  parting  with  Lisa,  which  had  made  such  an 
impression  upon  him. 

*  She  told  me  she  was  sure  I  should  see  you  again,  and  that 
some  time  we  should  be  happy  together.  Poor  little  Lisa  ! '  he 
added ;  '  how  shamefully  we  treated  her !  It  is  a  good  thing 
we  don't  get  all  our  deserts  in  this  world,  or  I  should  know  I 
hadn't  much  chance  of  being  happy  with  you  for  very  long.  I 
should  feel  I  had  no  right  to  expect  the  happiness  for  myself 
which  I  helped  to  destroy  for  others.  And  we  have  so  much 
more  than  we  could  ever  have  hoped  for.' 

*  Yes,  indeed,  wa  have.  All  I  want  now  is  to  see  you  more 
like  yourself  again,  Arthur ;  not  looking  so  old  and  tired,  as  if 
you  were  working  yourself  to  death.  I  don't  believe  you  eat  or 
drink  or  do  anything  regularly.  Mrs  Clarke's  complaints  are  all 
true,  I  'm  sure.' 

Arthur  laughed.  ^  Ah,  I  '11  behave  better  when  you  come  to 
the  Bectory,  Nelly.  I  shan't  be  able  to  rush  in  and  out  at  all 
hours  when  I  know  you  are  waiting  for  me.  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  sit  down  and  eat  my  meals  like  a  Christian,  as  the  old  woman 
says.  And  I  '11  make  a  holiday  for  myself  then,  Nelly.  I  can't 
afford  a  long  one ;  but  we  '11  have  two  or  three  weeks  somewhere, 


368  ATHERSTONK  PRIORY. 

And  you  won't  keep  me  waiting  for  ages  now  1  I  can't  stand  a 
solitary  life  much  longer ;  and  that  old  house  is  "  terrible  lone- 
some.'*    You  will  come  to  it  soon,  won't  you  V 


CONCLUSION. 

*  BEHIND   THE   CLOUDS   IS   THE   SUN    STILL   SHINING.' 

Arthur  and  Elinor  were  married  that  autumn.  There  was  no 
wish  on  any  one's  part  to  delay  the  wedding,  for  all  felt  they  had 
waited  long  enough ;  and  every  one  could  sympathise  with 
Arthur's  desire  to  have  his  wife  in  his  home  before  the  months  of 
winter  set  in.  So  when  St  Jude's  Eectory,  to  May's  great  de- 
light, was  furnished  and  ready  to  receive  the  bride,  one  foggy 
day,  early  in  November,  another  w^edding  party  from  the  Priory 
met  together  in  the  old  church ;  and  at  the  altar,  where  seven 
years  before  Percy  and  Lisa  had  knelt  side  by  side,  Arthur  and 
Elinor  now  knelt  in  their  turn,  and  plighted  their  mutual  vows. 
And  Percy  stood  a  little  apart  listening,  with  bent  head  and 
folded  arms,  to  the  words  of  the  service  he  had  heard  read  so  long 
ago,  but  which  seemed  to  bring  that  time  so  near  again,  that  he 
could  have  fancied  himself  still  in  his  cousin's  place,  and  the 
little  white-robed  figure  who  had  then  been  made  his  own,  kneel- 
ing with  him  too.  It  was  with  a  weary,  heart-wrung  sigh  that 
when  the  service  was  over,  and  he  raised  his  eyes,  he  missed  the 
look  which  he  well  remembered  having  met  on  that  day ;  and 
there  was  a  most  bitter  pang  to  recollect  how  lonely  he  now  was, 
how  very  far  away  was  that  time  of  which  he  had  been  think- 
ing. And  yet — no,  was  he  in  truth  so  very  lonely  1  His  glance 
fell  upon  a  child's  form — the  youngest  and  the  loveliest  of  all 
the  party  there,  and  he  saw  a  pair  of  dark  bright  eyes  lifted 
lovingly  to  his  face,  and  his  heart  reproached  him  then  for  hav- 
ing even  for  one  moment  forgotten  the  great  blessing  still 
spared  to  him.  .  And  that  bitter  cry  was  stifled,  and  the  repin- 
ing thoughts  were  checked,  and  in  their  stead  there  was  a  hope, 
a  prayer  that  the  happiness  of  the  two  just  made  one  might 
be  more  lasting  than  that  of  his  own  brief  wedded  life. 


CONCLUSIOK.  369 

The  sun  came  out  as  tliey  were  leaving  the  church,  shining 
through  the  haze ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  fog  which  Imng  about, 
the  day  was  mild  and  far  from  being  ungenial.  The  wedding 
breakfast,  too,  was  perhaps  as  cheerful  an  affair  as  such  things 
generally  are.  Their  numbers  were  large  to  begin  with  ;  and  if 
some  voices  among  them  w^ere  silent,  they  were  hardly  missed 
in  the  general  hum  that  went  on  around.  And  if  Elinor  looked 
nervous,  and  Mary  and  Isabel  were  grave,  there  was  nothing  for 
any  one  to  remark  in  what  was  so  common  at  such  times.  Brides 
often  do  look  nervous,  and  sisters  will  feel  partings ;  and 
although  some  few  did  wonder  to  see  that  Arthur  also  was 
grave — far  graver  than  many  had  supposed  he  ever  could  be, 
they  did  not  guess  the  thoughts  that  kept  him  so  ;  they  did  not 
know  that  it  was  the  recollection  of  another  day  long  since 
vanished,  and  the  tones  of  a  little  motherless  child  which  met 
his  ear  at  times,  that  made  him  so  silent.  Far  more  silent  than 
Percy,  who,  though  grave  and  quiet  as  usual,  had  nothing  of 
sadness  in  his  face.  It  had  been  his  great  wish  that  his  cousin's 
marriage  should  take  place  while  he  was  still  at  home  to  be  present 
at  it ;  and  it  was  at  his  request  that,  when  he  found  there  was  a 
chance  of  his  almost  immediately  obtaining  a  staff  appointment, 
the  day  which  had  been  originally  fixed  was  altered  to  an  earlier 
one.  There  were  none  certainly  whose  wishes  for  Arthur's  and 
Elinor's  happiness  were  truer  and  deeper  ;  none  whose  farewell, 
when  the  hour  for  parting  came,  was  warmer. 

*  You  will  have  a  fine  journey,  after  all,  old  fellow,'  he  said, 
with  a  smile,  as  he  and  his  cousin  shook  hands  at  the  hall-door. 
*And  you  will  let  us  hear  from  you  soon,  won't  you?  I  am 
afraid  you  won't  find  us  here  when  you  come  back;  but  it 
won't  be  long  before  you  see  us  again.  I  shall  be  bringing  May 
down  in  the  spring  to  pay  you  a  visit,  and  see  how  you  are 
getting  on.' 

*  And  what  sort  of  a  clergyman's  wife  I  make  ; '  said  Elinor, 
trying  to  smile  through  her  tears.  *  Mind  you  keep  your  pro- 
mise, Percy,  for  I  shall  look  for  you  then.  I  don't  think  our 
home  will  seem  quite  right  till  we  have  had  you  to  stay  with  us.' 

*  You  will  think  differently  in  a  month's  time,'  he  answered, 
lightly ;  and  then,  changing  his  tone,  he  added,  gravely,  *  Your 
home  will  be  a  very  happy  one,  Nelly ;  a  happy  one  for  many  a 
year  to  come,  I  hope  and  trust.     And  I  can't  wish  more  for 

2a 


370  ATHERSTONE  PRIORY.  ! 

you/  lie  said  firmly,  ^  than  that  you  may  both  be  as  happy  aS' 
Lisa  and  I  were.'  «: 

*  O  Percy  ! '  Elinor's  tears  were  coming  fast  now.  '  And  whei^ 
your  home  is  so  lonely — when  we  helped  to  make  it  so  ! '  i 

'  Never  mind^  Nelly  ;  it  is  best  for  me  as  it  is.  I  thought  too^ 
much  of  her.  And  I  am  not  lonely  ;  I  have  my  little  May  left/i 
looking  at  his  child,  who  was  clinging  to  his  hand.  *  She  is  toii 
be  everything  to  me.  No,  not  everything,'  correcting  himself  jj 
*  I  am  afraid  I  was  beginning  to  think  too  much  of  her  too,  ai 
one  time :  but  I  have  learned  better  now,  though  she  must? 
always  be  very  dear  to  me.  But  she  won't  come  first.'  Hii 
voice  faltered  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  looked  up  again  with  a( 
smile.     ^  Well,  good-bye,  and  God  bless  you  both/  '; 

And  so  they  went ;  but  long  after  they  were  gone  Percy  stoo(| 
at  the  window  gazing  down  the  street  where  the  rays  of  tha^ 
November  sun  were  falling  with  a  shaded  misty  light ;  and  May^ 
knelt  upon  a  chair  by  his  side,  and  looked  out  too ;  soberly  andj 
silently  at  first,  for  the  parting  with  her  aunt  had  made  her  feet 
rather  downcast,  but  her  voice  was  heard  again  after  a  time,  audi 
its  merry  tone  diverted  her  father  from  his  thoughtful  mood.       I 

^  I  think  being  married  is  very  nice,'  she  remarked  in  he^ 
most  joyous  voice.  '  It 's  great  fun  ;  though  Aunt  Nelly  did 
cry.  But  I  've  got  a  new  uncle  now,  you  know.  Mr  Arthur  ig^ 
my  uncle ;  did  you  know  that,  papa  ?  Mrs  Clarke  said  he  wouli 
be  when  he  married  Aunt  Nelly  ;  and  she  said,  too — oh,  such  ani 
odd  thing ! — she  said  Aunt  Nelly  was  Miss  Right.  I  don't  believei 
that.  I  think  it 's  only  her  make-up.  But  anyhow,  Mr  Arthurj 
is  my  uncle  now,  and  I  'm  very  glad,  for  I  like  him  very  much,^ 
and  he  says  we  are  to  go  and  see  him  very  often ;  and  I  'm  toi 
have  that  little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  for  my  own  whenever^ 
we  go  there.  I  went  to  see  it  yesterday  with  Aunt  Mary.  li 
wonder  whether  Aunt  Susan  will  give  me  a  pretty  little  roomj 
when  she 's  married ;  and  Aunt  Isabel,  too.  For  Aunt  Isabel  is: 
going  to  be  married,  papa,'  and  May  lowered  her  voice  confideri^j 
tially,  *  Lane  says  so.  I  heard  her  tell  Mrs  Clarke  one  day  that! 
she  was  going  to  marry  Mr  Lawrence  when  he  got  something.] 
I  don't  know  what  exactly.  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  Aunt  Isabel; 
being  married,  because  she'll  go  away  too,  then ;  and  every- 
body seems  to  be  going  now.    You  are  going  too,  papa  ? ' 

*  Yes,  my  darling ;  but  you  are  to  come  with  me,  we  are  going; 
together.     I  shall  not  part  with  you  again,  my  little  May.'  j 


CONCLUSION,  371 

'  No ;  and  I  'm  so  glad.  I  do  like  being  with  you,  papa ; 
and  I  always  mean  to  stay  with  you.  And  Aunt  Mary  is  com- 
ing with  us.     Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy,  so  very  happy  ! ' 

She  was  right.  In  his  new  home,  with  his  child  and  sister 
wdth  him,  Percy  is  neither  lonely  nor  unhappy.  Far  otherwise, 
invdeed,  for  May's  young  warm  affection  and  loving  ways  have 
filled  the  void  once  left  in  his  heart.  It  is  true  that  he  still 
often  thinks  of  other  days,  and  often  in  fancy  hears  a  step  and  a 
voice  that  have  long  been  silent ;  and  memory  at  such  times  will 
bring  back  the  churchyard  by  the  sounding  sea,  where  far  from  her 
old  home  and  kindred,  his  little  Lisa — his  ten  months'  bride — is 
sleeping  her  last  sleep.  The  thunder  of  the  surge  upon  the 
beach  in  the  long  winter  nights,  and  its  murmurs  there  in  the 
golden  days  of  summer,  can  never  more  disturb  her  slumbers. 
Calmly  she  lies  at  rest — at  rest,  but  not  forgotten  ;  for  she  is 
often  spoken  of.  Percy  has  learned  to  hear  her  name  now  with- 
out the  pang  it  once  brought  him ;  and  he  often  talks  of  her  to 
her  child.  And  in  his  room  there  hangs  a  likeness  of  her.  Not 
of  Lisa  as  he  had  last  known  her,  pale  and  drooping ;  but  Lisa 
as  she  had  been  in  the  first  days  of  their  wedded  happiness,  joy- 
ous and  blooming,  and  radiant  with  beauty.  It  is  from  that 
likeness,  painted  from  memory  by  Isabel,  that  May  has  learned 
to  know  the  young  mother  she  lost  so  early. 


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turn  made  themes  of  comment. 

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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

.^^if,2^G 

Vi.c? 

REG'D  L..D 

SEP  4    1962 

- 

LD  21A-50m-3,'62 
(C7097sl0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


TD     lODhD 


